


When You're Famous

by GodsHumbleClown



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Adoption, Cancer, Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, Filmmaking, Illnesses, Im undecided on that one, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, because im soft, because spoilers, but lets be real, but they wont like each other at first probably, i'll call it slow burn, ill add more tags as i write, im real bad at that, maybe not enemies, movies - Freeform, stunt doubles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 24,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodsHumbleClown/pseuds/GodsHumbleClown
Summary: when you're famous, the world is your oyster, and Racetrack had been famous for almost his whole life.Worldwide celebrity Racetrack Higgins has a new job, and this time, he's going to be having a stunt double, the entirely-too-serious Spot Conlon, who unfortunately, seems to be immune to Racer's charming smile.So like, SHOULD I be starting a new fic right now? Absolutely not. But... I really wanted to use this idea, and I don't have self control to speak of.This is my first time writing a musical-based fic and not 1992sies, but i can guarantee, i am also going to be influenced by 1992sies because i love it and i cannot help myself.I have no idea what my updating schedule will be.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 200
Kudos: 142





	1. This Is Gonna Be Great

When you're famous, the world is your oyster, and Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins had been famous almost since he was born. 

Starting with that very first role in a baby food commercial, Race had been charming audiences across the globe for years, much longer than he could remember. (And thanks to his grandma recording it onto a VHS tape, he couldn’t forget it, either.)

In spite of being forced to watch videos of himself as a baby every time he saw his grandparents, Racetrack loved the attention. He started getting recognized more and more often as he got bigger and more popular roles, which would have been annoying if not for the fact that he was an outgoing kid in addition to being adorable. By the time Racetrack was twelve, he got stopped for autographs at the grocery store, and once he turned fourteen, his schooling was exclusively online, half because of the busy schedule at the time (Pig Latin! The single stupidest animated Julius Caesar performance and Racetrack’s favorite movie he’d ever voice acted in), and half because he never _really_ got left alone at school. 

Race was just fine with this arrangement. It meant he could work at his own pace, and more importantly, take on as many roles as his agent and also the child labor laws would allow him to. Well, child labor laws were becoming less of a problem as he got older, and now, at seventeen, he was almost able to work one hundred percent the same as an adult. Thank goodness for that. The more hours he could spend in front of a camera, the better, in Racer's opinion. 

People loved Race, and who could blame him? He’d been a cute little kid, all curls and freckles, and now he was a Handsome Young Man,™ beloved by straight gals and gay guys all across the globe. (Except for that dickwad with the youtube channel that at times seemed exclusively devoted to roasting him. Fuck that jerk)

Racetrack flipped his pencil into the air, catching and tossing it thoughtfully as he “did his math work”, AKA, stared at the ceiling, uninterested in his math work. It wasn’t that Race was lazy, or stupid, or even _that_ much of a procrastinator. He just happened to have a very important thought weighing on his mind right now, and he was waiting for a very important phone call to ease said mind. 

For a moment, he debated calling his mom, just to pass the time, but finally decided against it. She’d talk for ages, since they hadn’t seen each other in awhile and she was probably still mad about the whole Situation with the car, and if Race let himself get scolded for too long he might miss the call from Hannah. 

His agent (or, as she liked to call herself, Racetrack’s extremely overqualified babysitter) should be calling any minute, to let him know whether or not he got the role in this new action TV series. 

Race didn’t usually worry about things like this. If he got the role, he got it, and if he didn’t, he didn’t. There were plenty of options out there, and it wasn’t like he was running low on money or anything. 

But he really wanted this particular role. He’d never actually been in a long-running TV show before, and it would be consistent work, consistent publicity, and most importantly, consistent activity to occupy his time and avoid another… not _scandal,_ exactly, because Race was adamant that one little arrest on his record didn’t qualify as a scandal, but it was definitely negative attention, and Race didn’t like that nearly as much as he liked positive attention. 

Plus, this was an action TV show, meaning that, while it was obviously a lot of work, it would also be the kind of thing that Race would actually enjoy, not _just_ do because he needed money and a job and Hannah told him to do it. 

Speaking of Hannah, his phone was ringing. Racetrack dropped his pencil, nearly damaging his very popular and probably very valuable eyeballs, or as that really long and concerningly detailed fanfic he’d been reading about himself described them, “his indescribable sparkling orbs.”

“Hey Hannah! How goes things in the land of “Make Racer More Famous?”” Hannah gave a long-suffering sigh from her end of the phone. 

“Things are going just fine, Anthony. And yes,” she answered the question before he could ask it. “You got the part.”

Anything else she might have said was drowned out by Racetrack cheering and hollering, a kind of sad looking celebration considering he was alone in the house at the moment. 

“Filming starts in a few weeks, Anthony. I’ve already talked to your parents, and everything should be in order.”

“Hannah!” Racetrack whined. “You told my parents before you told _me? Rude!"_

“Legal things, Tony. After your birthday, I’ll start calling you first. Now,” Hannah was all business again. “I’ll be back in touch, but for now, just focus on getting ready to leave. You’ll be on the set for awhile for this one.”

Racetrack grinned at that; he loved spending weeks in hotel rooms, largely unsupervised, and basically in charge of all his free time. He landed back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. 

This was going to be great. 

* * *

Spot had heard of Anthony Higgins. Who hadn't? 

Child star practically since birth, he was known for being something of a wild card, having gotten into serious enough trouble while driving to earn the nickname Racetrack by fans across the globe. He was a flirt and, in Spot’s opinion, seemed kind of spoiled, what with the fact that he seemed to have no problem with _causing_ problems for his poor agent to clean up. 

And now he needed a stunt double. He needed Spot Conlon, probably the youngest stunt actor out there. 

Apparently a little danger was fine when the only one at risk was some innocent bystander who might get killed in a car accident, but when it came to risking _Anthony Higgins'_ valuable little neck, suddenly someone else needed to put themselves in harm's way. He didn't even look like Spot, so who they'd really be fooling, Spot wasn't sure. 

Not that Spot could really complain. A job was a job, and this one looked like it would give him a pretty consistent bit of work for the next few months. 

Of course, that meant he was going to fall even more behind in classwork, but that couldn’t be helped. He was already almost two full grades behind, just because of how much he’d missed and failed because of missing. 

_But think about the money,_ he told himself. This job would pay more for a few months than Uncle Aaron made in a year. 

Now that he was finally eighteen, Spot could take on _real_ stunt work, meaning more pay and longer hours. This time was a legitimate TV show, something he'd never been involved with before. 

He was going to be away from home for a long time this time, though. Longer than he’d been away ever before. 

Smalls and Romeo wouldn’t like that, but they needed the money, pretty desperately, he might add.

It wasn’t ideal, but they’d make it work. 

Aunt Sophie was looking at him, and pretending she wasn’t, while doing dishes. Spot finally closed his math textbook to answer her unasked question. 

“I got the job.”

He could _see_ the tension and worry melt away from her eyes as soon as he spoke. 

“Oh, thank goodness, Sean.” She quickly added, trying not to sound halfhearted, “But we only want you to take the job if you want to, you know that.”

“I want to,” Spot assured her, and he wasn’t really lying. He liked stunt work. It would just be nice to not _have to_ do it. 

“Well, we’ll have to get you ready to go. I’m not having you go off to California for months and not have you prepared.”

Sophie was trying to use her Mom Voice, but Spot could tell she was nervous having him so far from their little house in Indiana for so long.

“It’s only a few hours by plane,” he assured her (and tried to assure himself). 

He was an adult now. Spot didn’t have to worry about going away from home for a little while. He slid his textbooks back into his book bag, suddenly not feeling up to studying. 

“This is going to be great.”


	2. One time I got stuck in an airport in Ecuador for 30 hours and that was Not Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying writing this, and feeling very motivated so far, but I have no idea how often I'll be able to update in the future. I'm hoping for at least once a week, but knowing myself and my anxiety, I'll probably post more often even if it means the chapters are a bit shorter. 
> 
> Hope you like it, please let me know if there's any other characters you'd like to see me use!

Spot stood in the airport, bags checked, ticket and carry-on in hand. 

He was ready to leave, but at the same time, so, so not ready at all. 

Uncle Aaron put an arm around his shoulders and pulled Spot into a tight hug, completely unconcerned by the crowded airport full of people who could see.

Of course he didn’t care, Spot chided himself. People hugged their families in the airport all the time, nevermind if they were both adult or basically-adult men. 

Besides, Uncle Aaron had never been a believer in the whole “boys don’t cry, show affection, or exhibit other healthy behaviors like human beings often do” thing. In fact, the guy cried pretty easily, like right now. Spot could see tears sparkling behind Aaron’s round, nerdy glasses, and couldn’t help but notice the lines of age and stress in the corners of his eyes.

“We’ll call every night, and I already bought stamps and envelopes for the kids to write letters.”

Aaron didn’t seem to want to let go of Spot, still holding on with one arm, in spite of the fact that the man was a good foot taller than his nephew, and it couldn’t be comfortable standing like that.

“I’ll be fine, Aaron. It’s only for a few months.”

Spot did his best to sound confident, even excited, though excitement was kind of pushing his abilities right now, seeing as he really just wanted to get back in the car and go home, where he’d said goodbye to Aunt Sophie, Romeo, and Smalls that morning. 

“If we can get the money together, I’ll see about visiting you, or Sophie can.”

Spot shook his head. 

“No way. Keep the money. I’ll be fine.”

_ God  _ he wished he didn’t have to say that. Wished they  _ could _ come visit, just for a little bit. But the cost of even one plane ticket was too much to waste. 

“It’ll be like I’m away at college, remember? Good practice for if I ever manage to graduate,” Spot joked, finally managing to wiggle away from Aaron’s embrace. 

“You’re a smart kid, Sean. You’ll graduate, in your own time.”

Aaron looked at him for a moment, and he looked so sad, so tired, that Spot felt the urge to straighten up, look more confident than he felt. 

“Sean, I am so proud of you. You know that, don’t you? We’re going to miss you, kid.”

“I’ll miss you guys,” Spot echoed, glancing at the clock on the wall.  “I gotta go. I’ll see you…” Spot wasn’t sure when he’d see his family next, and that hurt. A lot. Not for the first time in recent days, his resolve wavered. 

“Tonight,” Aaron said firmly, pushing his glasses up his nose and blinking away tears. 

“We’ll skype, and see you tonight. You really think Greggi will let us go one whole day without skyping? You’re not escaping your sister that easily.”

Spot smiled at the mention of his stubborn little Smalls. He was really going to miss her.

Better stop thinking like that, or he’d never be able to leave.

Spot tightened his carry on backpack strap, stepping away from Uncle Aaron. 

“See you tonight.”

\----------------------

Spot wasn’t  _ afraid  _ of flying in airplanes, exactly. He didn’t like takeoff, and turbulence made him sick, but once they were flying smoothly, he could just pretend they weren’t in a big metal dildo shooting through the sky. 

“Sweetie, are you doing okay?”

The fact that the flight attendants all seemed to think he was about eleven did not put Spot in an exceptionally great mood. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” 

Sure, Spot was kind of short, but his voice had already changed, he was built like a brick wall, and he liked to think he looked his age. 

But these poor attendants had plenty of other things to take care of, so Spot wasn’t going to bitch about it and correct them.

The old woman in the aisle seat smiled kindly at him, and Spot awkwardly pursed his lips in an attempt to do something resembling a smile. 

He didn’t really feel like talking to anybody, so he put in his earbuds, twisting the wires to the exact angle that would make them actually work, and tried to get comfortable. 

Kind of physically impossible while hurtling through the sky several miles in the air. For once, Spot was grateful to be short, his legs a bit less cramped than a lot of the other passengers. 

He still wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be, he supposed. 

Spot curled up as much as he could in the little airplane seat. He stared out the window as the plane went higher and higher, taking him farther and farther away from the cornfields and gently sloping hills that meant home. 

* * *

"I don't see why I need a stunt double," Racetrack whined, at Albert, his best friend for forever. Albert put up with, and participated in, Racetrack’s bullshit as he’d been doing for years and years, ever since they met on set for a movie that neither of them could ever find for sale anywhere, even in the $5 bins of DVDs at Walmart. 

“I’m  _ almost  _ eighteen, and then I can do everything!”

Albert thumbed through an old edition of  _ O, the Oprah Magazine,  _ skillfully ignoring Racetrack’s complaining. 

“You can’t do everything. You don’t know how to actually fight without hurting the other guy, you don’t know how to jump out of an airplane, you’ve never even  _ touched  _ a motorcycle-”

“Okay, point taken,” Race grumbled. 

“But I don’t have to like it. I’m going to whine and bitch and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Albert snorted. 

“Can always tell your babysitter.”

“Hannah is  _ not  _ my babysitter, she is my  _ Agent, _ and I will not have you disrespecting this hardworking woman with your snide comments, Albie.”

“Trust me, I know how hard Hannah works. She deals with you every day, the woman is practically God.”

Racetrack wanted to argue with what was clearly a jab at him, but he couldn’t do that without implying that Hannah  _ wasn’t  _ God, and that would be an obvious and utter lie. Even Pinnochio would be disappointed in how easily that horrible fib could be seen through. 

Instead, Race changed the subject.

“Wanna go give our lord and savior, Hannah, a heart attack?”

“Not particularly,” Albert said, not looking up from his magazine heap. 

“But what were you thinking?”

“Joyride. I’ll buy you ice cream when we’re done.”

“I’d rather not die tonight, thanks. Call Jack. He loves doing stupid bullshit with you, remember?”

That was true, but Race wanted  _ Albert  _ to do stupid bullshit with him tonight.

“What if,” Racetrack pressed his fingertips together thoughtfully. 

“We call Jack, and he comes over, and I buy an obscene amount of McDonalds, and we make a huge mess and unfortunately nobody will die except for in a few years when all of us have heart attacks because we’re morbidly obese?”

Albert shut his magazine and finally looked Racetrack in the eyes. This was serious business, haggling. 

“If you buy me McNuggets, it’s a deal.”

Race spat in his hand and held it out for Albert to shake. 

“Deal.”


	3. Shout out to me, because I'm sad and giving myself a pep talk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please, be kind to one another, even if its online. If you have a problem with someone, Talk To Them.  
> That's it. That's all I have to say. 
> 
> Anyways, if you have a request for characters you'd like to see in this story, let me know!

“Damaris is just Paula Deen, but withiut all the racist parts!  _ Rodney  _ should have won! He had something real going for him!”

Jack took Food Network Star entirely too seriously, especially considering they were watching a season that was like, seven years old.

“It's friggin' Pie Style, Jack!” Race crowed, throwing a McDonalds Apple Pie at Jack’s head and getting sticky sugar everywhere. 

Albert still had his eyes glued onto the screen, fully invested in every word that left Alton Brown’s mean, mean lips. 

“Albie, he’s way too old for you,” Racetrack teased, beating his best friend with a pillow from above, as Albert always sat on the floor next to the couch, rather than actually on it. He flat out refused to engage in platonic snuggles, to Racetrack’s constant annoyance. 

Albert remained as conversational as a goldfish, (with hair color to match) refusing to give Race the satisfaction of a real response. 

This was, of course, unacceptable to Racetrack, who did not like being ignored. He did not like it one bit. 

“Hey, Albie.”

He slid on his back off the couch like a slug, head dangling directly beside Albert’s.

“Wanna try a spiderman makeout scene?”

Albert’s face turned as red as his hair, and he shoved Race, sending the boy tumbling off the couch. 

“Assault! Assault on a minor!” Race declared, hopping into Jack’s arms for protection. 

“I’m a minor too, dumbass.”

“Then it’s bullying!” Race pointed an accusing finger at Albert. “Bully! Albert is a mean old bully! Jack, you have to beat him up for me.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Jack said, nudging Albert with his fuzzy sock covered toe.

“Alb, come join the snuggle heap and stop pining over chef Kinky.”

“Alton is not kinky,” Albert argued, climbing up to begrudgingly join the heap. 

“He calls himself Daddy,” Race pointed out mischievously. “And you just  _ love it, _ don’t you, Albie-boy?”

“ _ No,  _ I do not. I like him because he is funny and a good chef. I don’t expect you or wannabe Prince Charming over there to understand basic admiration for skill,” Albert sniffed, nodding at Jack, who was enjoying the argument immensely. 

“I thought you were the one who played Prince Charming, Al.”

Jack had a devilish smile on his face. They both knew Albert hated thinking about that.

“It was  _ one  _ season. Then they cancelled the show. I wasn’t even on screen that much.”

“But,  _ oh,  _ Prince Charming’s  _ gorgeous  _ emerald eyes!” Racetrack gushed, reciting a fanfic Albert had been sent several times. 

“You really stole that show, Albert,” Jack agreed. “Almost enough to make me wish I had any interest in acting.”

Jack was one of Racetrack’s few non-actor friends, but that didn’t mean he didn’t live a life surrounded by filming. 

His mom, Medda Larkin, was probably the most amazing director ever, at least in Racetrack’s opinion. This would be Race’s second time working with her, and it wasn’t an exaggeration to say he was excited enough that he might break something.

For example, he might bounce on the couch so aggressively that the leg broke off. He might do that. 

Maybe. 

Just one of many things that might, in theory, happen, if one was very excited. 

* * *

The problem with not having an excessive amount of money, Spot thought to himself as he finally got off his  _ second  _ airplane, was that cheap alternatives were often pretty bad quality. For example, a flight that should have been about four hours nonstop to his destination, because it was the cheapest possible option, meant he had to change planes and airlines halfway through, be interrupted by an almost five hour delay, and then figure out where the heck he was supposed to be going from here. 

God, he was tired, and it was barely seven PM.

Spot was supposed to be meeting someone here, whoever was in charge of stunt work for this company, or maybe the second in charge? Spot wasn’t sure. He was supposed to be meeting somebody, who would take him somewhere else, and hopefully, he’d get to sleep. 

He glanced around the airport, looking for… Spot quickly realized that he had no idea what this guy looked like. 

Well, step one : find other luggage. 

Spot’s familiar red plaid suitcase appeared quickly, holding pretty much everything he owned and would need for the next few months. Spot had never needed much, just a few changes of clothes and his blanket. 

Maybe it was kind of stupid for an eighteen year old to need his own special blanket to sleep, but Spot really didn’t have it in him to care. He needed his blanket, so he was going to have it with him. 

That and a few toiletries, and Spot’s suitcase was honestly a lot lighter than it looked. 

Thank goodness, because at that very second he dropped it on his foot in surprise at a sudden voice coming from behind him. 

“Are you Sean? Sean Conlon?”

Spot turned around to face a man in a dark green polo, brown hair combed back neatly. 

“That’s me. You’re…” Spot racked his tired brain to try and find the name he was sure he’d been told, but didn’t come up with anything. 

“Bryan Denton,” the man said with a little laugh. “Plane ride got you tired?”

Spot gave him as much of a smile as he could muster.

“Yeah, kinda. And it’s Spot, by the way. Not Sean.”

The name Sean was strictly for family use, nobody else. Certainly not someone he just met. 

“Alright, then Spot, what do you say we get you settled where you’ll be staying?"

What Spot would say, if he didn't have to be professional, was  _ Abso-fucking-lutely. Time to sleep.  _

"Sounds great. Thanks Mr. Denton."

Spot grabbed his suitcase before the man could take it for him. He hated having strangers touch his stuff. 

"Please, it's just Denton."

"Lead the way then, Denton."

* * *

A Racetrack-style party, even one of only three people, had a tendency to go on quite late and would have annoyed the neighbors, if not for the fact that they lived nowhere near any people. 

Well, Mrs. Fullings was probably within earshot, but she was pretty much completely deaf. 

Thank goodness, because she absolutely would have complained, the grouch. Old money, as they said. She hadn't gained any of her wealth for herself, yet she had the nerve to call  _ Racetrack _ entitled. 

Stupid old hag. 

At around three, both Albert and Jack had fallen asleep, leaving Racetrack to his own devices. 

Due to some "irresponsible decisions," Race had the munchies, so he microwaved a TV dinner and plopped himself back on the couch next to Jack and Albert, who by now were full on snuggling in their sleep. 

He scrolled around on the Disney Plus menu before finally settling on Lion King, a classic that he couldn't watch when Jack was awake, because the guy would cry and it would be weird for all of them. 

Tomorrow was a busy day, so Race figured he'd just use the movie as background noise to sleep. 

He snuggled in between Jack and Albert and settled down to let the sound of cackling hyenas lull him to sleep. 

* * *

The second Spot entered his hotel room, he collapsed on the bed, then immediately got back up. 

He unzipped his suitcase, fought with the stupid broken zipper for a moment, and then tugged out his blanket. 

The same red plaid as his suitcase, Spot absolutely loved this worn out fleecy thing. It was the only bit of home he could bring absolutely everywhere, and loving on it for about twelve years definitely showed. 

Threadbare and frankly kind of ratty, the blanket was clean, because of course, Aunt Sophie had washed it before he left. 

Spot wondered how many times he'd wash it himself before he saw Sophie again. 

Better not think about that. Instead, he flopped back in the bed, ready to get some sleep. 

Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and he'd better get rested up. 


	4. *Shows up with this chapter 15 minutes late with a starbucks* "I am NOT going to sleep tonight with all this caffeine"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot and Race finally meet. 
> 
> Shoutout to sonofabreach for saying nice things to me and making me so happy i cry, 10/10 best person ever would recommend.  
> anybody who likes reading this or any other fic i wrote can thank them and also anyone else who comments on my stuff for giving me motivation to keep writing
> 
> disclaimer : I do not know how filming a movie works so im gonna say that any inaccuracies are a result of "Medda does it her own way the end"

Spot rolled out of bed at exactly 5 AM, ten hours after he’d collapsed there the day before. 

“Shit,” he muttered, looking at his phone. He was so tired last night, he’d forgotten to call home. 

**Sophie**

_How was the flight?_

_Did you land safe?_

_Sleep well, Sean_

_We love you_

_Sorry,_

He sent a reply back to his aunt, who would definitely worry if he didn’t respond for a while. 

_Fell asleep as soon as I got to the hotel._

_Flight was fine, changed planes in colorado_

_Love you too._

**17 missed calls from Aaron**

_Spot_

_Spot_

_Anser the phone_

_This is romeo by the way_

_Did the plane crash?_

_Sorry mom said dont say that_

_Okay smalls said good nite and that you shouldnt ignore us_

_Your suppose tell racetrack shes his biggest fan when you meat him_

_Dont forget_

_Good nihte ;D_

No time to call back this morning; Romeo and Smalls would alredy be at school by now, thanks to stupid time differences. 

Well, he’d just have to call later tonight. Smalls would probably yell at him, he thought with a little smile. She was a real smart aleck like that. 

Spot was meant to be on set at seven, so that gave him two hours to get his bearings and be ready for the day.

Not that there was a whole load to get ready for, seeing as, from what Denton had told the half-asleep Spot in the car ride from the airport, the first day was just some weird Get-To-Know-Everybody thing that the director liked to do when filming first started. 

Spot had heard great things about Medda Larkin, but she also sounded like a little bit of a hippie. 

He didn’t mind hippies, as long as they still paid him. 

Spot didn’t really feel like eating anything, but he definitely should, considering the nature of his job was pretty much the definition of physically draining. 

He had some granola in his carry-on from yesterday. Spot could almost always convince himself to eat granola. 

Spot sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, munching on what was basically just oatmeal without the wet, squishy, gross parts. 

He scrolled aimlessly on his phone for a while before finally deciding to actually get up and ready. 

Comfortable was the way to go for clothes, as far as Spot was concerned. He had to be ready to fall, take hits and give them, run and crash and flip. Pretty much anything physical. 

Gym shorts and t-shirts were really the only thing he’d consider wearing on an average work day, so that was what he went with today. Red shorts, black striped t-shirt, make something resembling an effort to comb his hair, and that was good enough for Spot. 

He glanced at his phone clock and realized that he should probably get going. Day one was definitely not the best one to be late on. 

* * *

  
  


By the time Racetrack woke up, he was already late. Luckily, he was pretty near the filming set, so he really just had to put on non-pajama pants and head out the door. 

Plus, Medda wouldn’t be _that_ mad at Racer. She never was, even when he sort of almost got her son arrested a handful of times. 

They never _actually_ got arrested, just… almost. 

Race pulled on his jeans, grabbed a granola bar, and dashed out to the garage. 

Jack and Albert were still fast asleep, but they knew how to get outside and set the security system and all that, so he could just leave. 

Racetrack’s car was his baby, a bright green 2017 McLaren 570S (cue writer googling “fancy cars”) that was honestly the greatest car ever created, in Race’s opinion. 

A car like that, it’d be criminal to drive slow, even if technically the “actual crime” would be to speed. 

Racetrack didn’t get his nickname for nothing. 

* * *

  
  


Spot already decided he was getting off on the wrong foot with Racetrack as soon as the guy walked in the door. 

Half an hour late was one thing. Half an hour late and not even _caring_ was something else entirely. 

Spot heard Sophie’s voice in his head, reminding him to give the guy a fair chance, not let first impressions be the only ones he allowed to exist. 

_Fine,_ he responded to Mind-Sophie. 

But only because Sophie wanted him to. 

“Hey, Medda!” 

Racetrack’s method of announcing himself irritated Spot immediately, though honestly he was already irritated, so maybe that wasn’t fair. 

“I have arrived!” He gave Spot a cheeky smile, then stage-whispered to Medda, “Who’s Thorin Oakenshield over there?”

 _Nope._ Sorry Mind-Sophie.

Spot did not like this guy at all. 

* * *

  
  


Racetrack strolled into the room half an hour late, almost wishing he’d stopped for Starbucks, just to add to the memeiness of the situation. 

He recognized Medda and a few other people he’d been introduced to yesterday, but a lot of new faces were around too. 

One of them was a very angry face, and _hot damn_ what a face. 

Small-and-sexy didn’t seem to appreciate Racetrack’s jokes just yet, but that didn’t matter; Race could win over just about anybody if he so chose. 

And, he decided right there, he did so choose. 

“This is Sean,” Medda introduced, skillfully ignoring the fact that Racetrack was utterly incapable of being professional.

  
“He does stunt work. Why don’t you two get acquainted? You’ll be working together quite a bit, since there’s a lot Anthony isn’t allowed to do.”

Sean nodded to Racetrack as soon as Medda wandered off. The guy still looked kind of annoyed, but he gave something sort of resembling a very very fake smile. 

“It’s Spot. Nice to meet you.”

Race nodded as if he was thinking seriously. 

“Charmed, I’m sure. So, if you're a stunt double, does that mean you’re like, flexible and stuff?”  
  


Spot looked less irritated and more confused now.

“I guess. I mean, I usually do more “intense action” stuff, like sparring or whatever.”

Race wiggled an eyebrow. 

“Oh? Intense action. Sounds kinda hot.”

Spot’s face flushed as bright as his shorts.

“Pretty boy, I could kick your ass right now, but I need to get paid. Fuck off.”

“Kinky,” Race teased, and Spot somehow turned even redder. 

“This conversation is over.”

This was going to be fun, Race could already tell. 


	5. Race being impulsive idiot i promise he's not just a jerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for small ableist joke.  
> I promise, Race isn't some huge asshole, he is just a dumbass. He will learn and grow, but for now, he is unlikeable. sorry and pls don't hate me over it.  
> also don't look up bald animals. theyre scary.

Spot was already done. So very very done with Racetrack Higgins. He was probably the single most annoying person Spot had ever met, and the guy apparently thought it was absolutely hilarious to follow Spot around all day. 

Spot did not _want_ to be followed around, thank you very much, but Racetrack clearly did not care. Or maybe he did care, and just really wanted to make Spot miserable. 

“Hey, Spot.”

_Dear lord, what now?_

Spot had kind of hoped he would be left alone during lunch, but no such luck. Racetrack didn’t want to hang around with his actual, actor costars, clearly preferring to harass probably the only person here who didn’t want to talk to him. 

“Yes?” Spot responded, hoping he didn’t sound quite as pained as he felt. 

Racetrack flopped into the chair next to Spot, propping his head up in his hands. 

“How do you feel about this?”

He slid his cell phone across the folding table to Spot, revealing a photo of a completely bald horse, it’s pinkish skin and bulbous eyes making Spot honestly feel very very creeped out. 

“How am I supposed to feel about it?” Spot asked, deciding to play along with the least invasive conversation Racetrack had tried to start all day. 

“Well, personally,” Race began, flipping his phone back to stare at the poor shaved animal. 

“I feel lust. Deep, unquenchable lust.”

Spot shoved his chair back from the table, grabbed his food, and walked away as quickly as possible, before he said or did something he’d regret. 

He could hear Racetrack laughing hysterically, like a demented baboon who’d just found a slightly less rotten orange in some random person’s dumpster. 

That was exactly Racetrack’s sense of humor, Spot decided. 

Deranged primate, causing no real harm, just making a mess. Spot didn’t want him _dead,_ but he’d prefer him to be alive literally anywhere else. Preferably far, far away. 

Spot found a place to sit near some workers who seemed more his kind of guys, sound workers and cameramen. 

One of them, a young man with glasses offered a friendly smile. 

“Hey. You’re the stunt guy, right?”

Spot nodded, getting back to his food. Poor nutrition was a great way for Spot to either end his career or get into an easily preventable accident, and he had no desire to do either of those things. 

“Sean. Sean Conlon. Most people call me Spot, though.”

“I’m Ryan. Unless you’re Higgins over there, who’s decided my name is Specs.”

The young man didn’t look particularly annoyed by the nickname, and just gestured to his glasses. 

“So I guess you can call me Specs too. I got a pretty sweet internship here, working with the sound crew. College credit, too.”

He looked proud, and for good reason. An internship at a Medda Larkin production, even one just barely starting out, was definitely nothing to sneeze at. 

“This is Louis, or Blink.”

He gestured to the boy beside them, completely engrossed in his phone. The first thing Spot’s eyes were drawn to was Blink’s eyes, or eye, to be more exact. He had a glass eye settled on the table right next to him, and just an empty socket in his head. 

Spot did his best not to stare. 

“He’s texting his sweet lover, so a bit busy at the moment.”

Blink glanced up just long enough to toss a grape at Specs’ head before turning back to his phone.

“Mush is stressing about finals and he needs support, so shut your face.”

_He._

Spot filed that under For Future Reference in the back of his mind. Blink wouldn’t have a problem with Spot being very much not-straight. 

Blink set his phone down suddenly and turned to Spot.

“Okay, he’s in class now. I’m Blink. Also an intern. Grips. And yes,” He held up a hand as if Spot had tried to interrupt. 

“I am a little young to be doing this. This is not Phineas and Ferb, so you do not have to say it. I’m not getting paid and this is only legal because my dad works here.”

Spot smiled. Clearly Blink was used to explaining this. 

“Also, before you ask, yes, the eyeball is fake. And itchy as all fuck, so it only goes in when I want to pretend I care.”

Spot glanced down at the glass orb, which he’d kind of forgotten about. Spot had a helpful ability to become immediately accustomed to literally anything, including but not limited to having 50% less eyes as most people. 

“Hey Blink! Specs! Spot! How’s it going?”

Spot resisted the urge to slam his head into the table. This idiot again.

“Racetrack.”

Spot did his best to sound as monotone and emotionless as possible. He kind of enjoyed these two new guys, and Racetrack was definitely not someone he enjoyed. 

“Can I help you?”

Maybe if Spot insisted on acting strictly professional, Racetrack would get the hint and leave him alone. 

“I think you’ve got too many eyeballs to sit here, don’t you, Spot?” Racetrack laughed like this was a hilarious joke, when it was, at best, stupid. At worst, it was just plain nasty. Spot looked over to Blink and Specs to see their reactions. 

Specs looked slightly irritated, and Blink looked embarrassed, slipping his glass eye into its socket. 

That pissed Spot off. He could handle annoying and immature, but he would _not_ let this guy get away with comments like that. 

Spot stood up slowly. He’d long ago learned that trying to look taller wouldn’t work for him, and it was better to just look completely and utterly confident. Not hard, considering Spot could definitely kick Racetrack’s ass if he needed to. 

“I’d suggest you get lost,” Spot said, keeping his voice just as flat and monotone as before. 

“Before I make you.”

Racetrack’s smile faltered just a bit, and he took a step back, much to Spot’s satisfaction. 

To his credit, the guy did look ashamed of his joke almost immediately, but Spot wasn’t going to let it go that easily. 

He sat back down once Racetrack put some distance in between them. 

“Dude.” 

Both Blink and Specs were staring at him, looking a weird mix of impressed and concerned. 

“What?”

Specs shook his head. 

“You’ve never worked with anyone like Race, have you?”

Blink nodded his agreement. 

“Stay on his good side,” he advised. “It makes things way easier. Trust me. My dad nearly got fired during one of his films because of a “joke” Higgins pulled.”

Spot frowned. 

“Well, I don’t suck up to guys like that. Never.” 

Sure, Spot could be charming, when he wanted to. But he wasn’t going to be all chummy with some rich brat. No way. 

He’d just have to be careful, not let it get too far. He could do that.


	6. In which : I try to make u feel bad for our boi (did it work??)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the word Smut in this chapter so nobody can ever ask me to write smut ever again.  
> I wrote Smut.  
> S-M-U-T. There. Smut.  
> Short chapter because I'm struggling to write atm, writers block is mean. 
> 
> If ya wanna see any other characters, or more of the ones I've included, let me know!

Racetrack chewed absently on a piece of beef jerky, mind lost in very important thoughts as he typed away on his phone screen. 

He had to get the next chapter of this Albert Dasilva x Famous TikTok Boys (GodsHumbleClown refuses to look up any name to make this more detailed) RPF he was writing solely to piss Albie off posted sometime today, or his many readers would be so disappointed. 

He giggled to himself, looking quite maniacal, probably. 

Albert still didn't know who was writing it, and probably assumed it was a fan. This was, of course, ideal for Racetrack, who really enjoyed subtle, long running pranks. 

Why Albert checked this "fanfic" every day, or even found it in the first place, Race had no idea. Well, he knew how Albert found it. He'd sent him an anonymous e-mail with the link, like it was 2005 or something. 

Messing with Albert was definitely fun, and Race was very skilled at it. It was also a good distraction, if Race didn't feel like thinking. 

Right now, he didn't feel like thinking. 

Their first day on set, and he was pretty sure he'd managed to piss off Sexy-The-Stunt-Boy already. 

Racetrack was pretty good at pissing people off, but it was usually on purpose. 

This time, it was an accident and he didn't really know what to do with that information. 

Race didn't like when he accidentally did things, because then he couldn't just brush it off. He could try, sure, but based on Spot's reaction to his joke, pretending nothing had happened was probably not a good idea. 

Admittedly, Race knew as soon as he said it that his joke wasn't funny, and as soon as he looked at Blink's face, he felt bad. Racetrack sort of knew Blink, since the guy tended to hang around with his dad, who Race had worked with a few times. 

Cool guy, worked in casting. Most importantly, he accepted Racetrack's apology when the unmentionable Jell-o prank from three years ago wound up going a little too far and almost got the guy fired. 

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like his son was going to be all that interested in forgiving anytime soon. 

But Race was good at schmoozing, and he'd make Blink and Spot and everybody like him again, sooner or later. Probably once the guys were less nervous, with it being the first day and everything. 

Not everybody had as much practice and experience as Racetrack, so of course, they'd be snippy and uncomfortable on the first day.

Yeah. That was for sure the reason. They were just awkward _for now._

He'd fix it. 

For now though, he had to finish this smut. Albie was gonna be so _mad._

* * *

"Anthony, I picked these up from your PO box."

Hannah handed over a stack of envelopes, most of which were from fans. 

Race didn't care about fan mail, or at least he didn't care right now. He'd read it all later, maybe reply to some of the funnier ones. 

"Thanks, Hannah." 

She nodded, then went back to whatever it was she was doing on her phone. Hannah was only over to drop off a huge pile of papers for Race to say he looked at but not actually read, so he was alone in the house soon enough. 

He flipped past all of the envelopes to the only thing he wanted to see, a postcard from his mom. 

A hideous road drinking wine grinned at him from the picture side, and his mom's huge loopy handwriting covered the other. 

  
  


_Anthony,_

_Hope you're having a nice summer, Luke and I are spending the week with his brother, in France! France, Tony! Cheese, wine, cutting off heads!_

_I'll see you in a few weeks,_

_Love, Mom_

Racetrack smiled. Mom never had much to say in the postcards, and her train of thought rarely made sense, but he liked getting them anyway. It was nice to know she was thinking about him, even across the ocean for weeks and weeks. 

Nevermind the fact that it wasn't summer yet, and her saying Have A Nice Summer probably meant she wasn't going to be coming home once it _was_ summer. 

Race didn't really _like_ her newest boyfriend, but Luke was nice enough. Kind of dorky, and in Race's opinion, way too old for his mother. She could do better, he was sure. 

Mostly Race just didn't like some rich guy taking his mom away all the time. (Even though Race himself was kind of "some rich guy" too.)

They always invited him to come along, of course, but Race really didn't want to be around the two lovebirds for days and days all alone. He'd much rather have the house to himself. 

Then nobody could stop him from causing absolute chaos, for example, moving every piece of furniture two inches to the left so Mom and Luke would bump into everything when they finally came home. 

(Specifically targeted at Luke, but nobody had to know that.)

Sure, it was an old prank, but really, who could speak ill of such a classic?

Race would also be bumping into everything for the next little while, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

For the greater good. 


	7. Titles are hard, I prefer Turtles.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why are Spot chapters so much easier to write and why is Race so hard for me to write?????????

Spot settled back in the squishy hotel bed with his phone, just waiting for the little blue Skype bubble to chime on the screen. 

Only two days away from home, and he already missed his family so much it hurt. 

It always happened like this when he left to film.

Thank goodness he usually either didn't have to travel for work, or didn't stay too long. If he was away too long, Spot would be so constantly distracted by homesickness that he'd wind up flipping a motorcycle onto his head or something. 

He'd better not do that this time, miles and miles away for longer than he'd ever had to be before. 

The cheerful ringtone surprised Spot, bursting him out of his thoughts as he scrambled to answer it. 

"Spot! You didn't call yesterday!" Smalls' accusing face greeted him the second Spot clicked Accept. 

"You promised you would!" Romeo chimed in, poking his head on screen and knocking Smalls’ hat askew. 

“I know, I know,” Spot held his free hand up defensively. “Sorry, I fell asleep as soon as I got to the hotel.”

“Show us the hotel!” Smalls demanded, as she always did when Spot skyped with her from a different location away from their immediate surroundings. The girl didn’t get a chance to get out of the house much, so she craved Spot-style tours whenever possible. 

Spot groaned, teasing the younger kids by refusing to move around. “But I don’t wanna move! I’m so comfy where I am!” 

Spot hid a smile in his blanket at Smalls and Romeo’s squealing laughs of protest. 

“Don’t be mean, Sean.”

Uncle Aaron’s affectionate chiding came from somewhere off screen, then the man’s face, and also the rest of his body, of course, joined the two children on the bed. 

“How’s it going, kiddo?”

Aaron shoved his glasses up his nose, wrapping an arm around Smalls and Romeo. 

“Good so far,” Spot said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I met some cool guys on set today, interns. We talked at lunch.”

_ And Mr. Famous came over to harass us, of course.  _ Spot wasn’t going to say that part though. Smalls needed to believe that her favorite actor was a good person. Poor kid was going through too much; Spot couldn’t upset her like that. 

“Did you meet Racetrack?” Of course, Smalls was excited that her brother was working with her all time favorite celebrity. 

“Is he cool? Tell him I think he’s great! He’s my hero!”

“Hey!” Spot protested. “I thought I was your hero. You’ve replaced me?” 

Smalls laughed, patting at the phone screen like she was patting Spot on the head. 

“You’re my  _ other  _ hero. Racetrack’s in  _ Zombie Night.  _ You’re not in Zombie Night.”

“I could have been in Zombie Night,” Spot protested with a smile. “But that movie sounded way too scary.”

Romeo shrieked a laugh at the thought of Spot being afraid. “You’re not scared of  _ zombies! _ And Spot’s my hero, Smalls. You’re wrong! He’s way better than Racetrack. Racetrack’s an actor. Spot does  _ real  _ hero stuff.” 

His little cousin’s dramatic declaration of Spot’s awesomeness couldn’t help but bring a smile to his face. 

“Thanks, Romeo. But I didn’t do much today. Just boring talking to people.” He changed the subject from that, since it really had been pretty boring. 

“Hey, where’s Sophie?” 

His aunt hadn’t made an appearance yet, which was extremely out of character for her. Normally she’d be the first one to say hello and the last one to hang up, no matter who it was on the other end of the phone. 

Aaron gave a strained smile, one that Spot clearly recognized to mean  _ Don’t tell the kids anything.  _

“She’s at work a bit later today.”

Spot didn’t miss out on the unspoken message there. Money was tight again. 

“She says to tell you hello, she misses you, and don’t wear the same shirt all week.” he gestured to Spot’s favorite t-shirt, which, of course, he’d worn the first day on set. What else would he wear?

Spot forced a smile at the old argument between him and his aunt. 

“I’ll wash it before I wear it again,” he promised. 

But Sophie wouldn’t know if he  _ didn’t  _ do that, and it wasn’t like he’d gotten it dirty...

“So how are you guys doing? Romeo burned our room down yet?” he teased, hoping to lighten the conversation a bit. 

“The washing machine broke!” Romeo piped up, bouncing excitedly. 

“It flooded everywhere! Right after you left!” Smalls and Romeo clearly thought this was a fun adventure; they usually thought that, thank goodness. 

“We’re getting a new one soon,” Aaron explained. “For now, Mrs. Marley is letting us use her machine.”

Well, that explained why Sophie had to take on extra hours at work. Thank goodness for their next door neighbor. Old Mrs. Marley was a sweet woman who never failed to offer help when Spot’s family needed it, yet somehow, she never made it out like they were some charity case. 

“And Piggy misses you,” Romeo announced, quickly bored of the subject of laundry. Piggy was his hamster, a pet that Spot knew people judged their family for having. 

_ Waste of money. Should be spent on other things. Brings germs.  _

There were entirely too many arguments against poor Piggy; the innocent little fluffball didn’t deserve such hatred from strangers. 

Spot hated people’s judgement. His little cousin deserved a pet just as much as any of the more well-off kids deserved one. Probably deserved it more; Romeo loved that little rodent more than most kids loved their dogs or cats. 

“Tell Piggy I miss him too,” Spot said with a smile, shaking away the negative, bitter thoughts. He was talking to his family, and he didn’t want to be mad. 

Smalls yawned dramatically. “I’m not tired,” she declared, even though nobody had suggested she was.

“Well, I  _ am  _ tired,” Spot lied. He’d had an unusually inactive day yesterday, crammed into an airplane, followed by another inactive day today, just talking to people. Really, he felt compressed, and just wanted to go run, spar, do  _ something  _ to get moving. 

“I’ll call you guys tomorrow, okay?” 

Smalls was pretty obviously tired, and Spot knew she wasn’t going to rest unless he got off the phone with her. 

“Stay safe. We miss you, Sean.”

“Miss you too, Aaron.”

Spot waved to the screen, refusing to let himself feel sad as Smalls, Romeo, and Uncle Aaron waved back and then ended the call.

He stared at the screen for a minute, not feeling sad. How was he already so homesick after just two days? 

Spot sighed and started tugging on his shoes, grabbing the key card to his room off the bedside table. No way was he going to sleep yet, so no point in staying here. 


	8. Introducing Rhonda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idk what the heck is going on here but like... whatever. 
> 
> Disclaimer, Idk how making movies works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would folks like to see David in this fic?? I usually write David and it's weirding me out not having him!  
> Or Crutchie??? or both???

  
  


"I can't believe this. Who has this much time?" 

Yep, Albie was mad, Racetrack thought with a giggle. 

"How do they even _know_ this stuff?"

Albert paced around Race's basement, definitely annoyed by the excruciating detail Race had included in his multi-chapter Albert Fanfiction. 

"Your pictures are everywhere," Race pointed out, trying very hard not to seem suspicious. 

"Anybody could take four million years and count all of your _adorable_ freckles."

Albert shook his head. 

"But there's other stuff too. The slushy thing? From first grade! I was barely even into acting then! How could they know?"

Race knew because he was _there_ for The Slushy Incident, and to be fair, including that might have been a bit too far. Albert didn't like to talk about that little situation. 

"I never told anyone!" Albert half-shouted at Race's poster covered wall. "The only one who knew was Jack, and-"

He spun around, glaring at Racetrack. 

"Jack and _you._ Race, I swear to God, if you're the one writing…" he waved his phone in Racetrack's direction.

"This, I'm gonna kill you."

Race put on as innocent of a face as he could. 

"Me? I would never. I don't have the _time_ , Albie-boy. I'm a busy busy bee."

Albert growled, chucking a throw pillow (throw pillow, get it?? I think I'm funny) at Race's head. 

“You’re a busy busy bitch, is what you are. Write stories about yourself if you wanna be disgusting.”

Racetrack gasped in feigned offense. 

“I put hard work into that story! I cannot believe you don’t appreciate my hours of writing, Albert.”

Albert glared daggers at him. 

“Maybe if you put those hours into learning your scripts-”

Race threw his head back with an over-dramatic sigh, interrupting the lecture that everybody seemed to want to give him these days. Be more prepared, Racetrack. Practice your lines more, Racetrack. Stop showing up late to the set, Racetrack. Well, okay, maybe he should actually work on punctuality. That little problem did screw everybody else over. 

“Yes, Hannah,” he grumbled as Albert threw a thick stack of papers at his head. “’ll go study like a good little dancing monkey.”

It didn’t really take Race that long to learn his lines, and he didn’t usually _need_ to study them beforehand. Mostly he could just get the general idea, and ad-lib from there. 

“You can’t just make shit up for this one. Medda said so.”

“When did you talk to Medda without me?” Racetrack asked, offended. 

Albert shrugged, remaining annoyingly noncommittal. Were Jack and Albert hanging out _without_ Race? They never hung out without him!

“And hey, you were talking to her without me _and_ about me?”

Albert snorted. “Don’t get too big of a head about it. We don’t always talk about _you._ ”

Racetrack pushed away the word _always,_ which implied that they hung out more than just once or twice, in favor of annoying his best friend a little bit more. 

“Well, you should. I’m great.” This declaration was met with a raised eyebrow from Albert, like a fuzzy red caterpillar doing gymnastics on his face. What a skilled little lad, both Albert for his eyebrow dexterity, and the caterpillar for his full-body dexterity. 

“Okay, Mr. Famous. Go read your lines into your closet.”

  
“Albie…... I’ve been out of the closet for _ages._ ” Racetrack sniggered as Albert threw an eraser directly at his head, pinging it off his nose.

“Racetrack, _practice._ ”  
  


* * *

  
  


“Albert, look! I get to swear in this one!” 

Racetrack’s gleeful declaration on this amazing script discovery was met with absolutely no response, as Albert was an expert at ignoring him. Sometimes that was annoying, but Race had to admit, it was probably one of the reasons they had been able to stay friends for so long. You had to be able to tune out the bullshit to spend significant time around Racetrack Higgins. 

At this particular moment, Albert was thumbing through yet another issue of _O, the Oprah Magazine,_ which was understandably his favorite magazine. Race himself was partial to _National Geographic :KIDS,_ but each to their own. 

“Albert, you’re ignoring me.” Race sighed tragically, switching to the voice he knew _always_ got a response out of his friends. 

“Albert, my dearest hubby-wubby,” Rhonda-The-Old-Lady croaked out from Racetrack’s throat. 

“You don’t love me anymore.”

“I _never_ loved you,” Albert said, with an impressively heartbreaking lack of emotion. “I married you for your fame and fortune and you know it.”

Race turned his cackle into a sob, and Albert chucked his Oprah magazine at his head. 

“Shut up, Rhonda.”

Race leaned up against Albert, batting his eyelashes in a most seductive manner. 

“Wanna go for a romantic moonlit walk?” 

“Not with Rhonda.” 

Race gasped, smacking Albert with the magazine. 

“Don’t talk bad about Rhonda. She’s been your wife for _years_.”

“We married each other for tax benefits and that’s it.”

Racetrack jumped from his bed, launching himself halfway across the room in a single leap. 

“Let’s go for a walk, cause havoc. I’m bored. Rhonda can stay here and work on her needlepoint.”

“I’m convinced you’ve never met a woman over the age of thirty five in your entire life,” Albert complained, but he got up and tugged on his sneakers.

Racetrack noted that they were looking a bit shabby; Albert must not have had a lot of work lately. He’d better find a way to insist on giving him new ones. 

No best friend of Racetrack’s was going to go around in shoes with holes. He’d never allow it. Rhonda would be _appalled._

“My _mom_ is forty-two.” Racetrack began, because he absolutely had to argue with any statement Albert made in criticism of his social well-roundedness. 

“Just because she never wants to _talk_ to me-” 

“Shut up and let’s walk.”


	9. How Race stole Christmas but it's not december and he's not stealing anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I am failing u readers. I have not updated in entirely too long due to writers block and I want this fic to be good, I apologize.  
> anyways... chapter?  
> Additionally, I started college. So that's a thing.

Spot was beginning to realize this was more than likely a very bad idea. 

Going out for a run, alone, at night, in a city he didn’t know at all, was definitely not his most brilliant moment. 

Spot wasn’t _lost_ , exactly. He just wasn’t sure how to get back to the hotel he’d been put up in. 

He could call that guy Denton, if he absolutely had to, but that was very much a last resort. 

Not a good impression to leave everyone with. “That stunt kid who got lost the second he was left unsupervised.” 

No thank you, Spot did _not_ want to look like that much of an idiot this early in the job. 

He’d just have to wander around this random neighborhood, hopefully looking purposeful and not sketchy, until he found his way back. 

Spot paused at a lamppost in an unsuccessful attempt to get his bearings. 

The closest house was completely unfamiliar, and Spot was already uncomfortable here. 

This was very much a wealthy neighborhood, the kind of place he'd never in his life been welcome in and never would be. 

The curtain shifted in the window, and an old woman squinted out at Spot suspiciously. 

He waved awkwardly, and she shut the blinds immediately. Spot silently cursed himself for looking so incredibly not-casual. Hopefully she didn't call the cops on him; that would give a significantly worse impression than calling for help after getting lost. 

Spot could only imagine how that lovely conversation would go. 

_Hey, Mr. Denton. I got myself arrested. No, I promise, I didn't actually do anything. They just think I'm a cat burglar._

Yeah, no way. He'd lose this job so fast, then get a bad enough reputation that most likely nobody would ever hire him for this kind of work ever again. That was _not_ something Spot was prepared to let happen. 

With that thought in mind, Spot pushed off the lamppost and started off down the road again. 

Why did he have to wear all black gym clothes all the time? He also hadn't showered or un-rumpled himself yet after work, since missing his family's Skype call was absolutely not worth risking, so all in all, Spot wouldn't blame anybody who crossed to the other side of the street instead of passing close to him. 

He was really not rocking the sketchy hobo look, that was for sure. 

Spot spun on his heels at a sudden and unfortunately somewhat familiar voice, right behind him. 

"Hey, Spot? Is that you?"

 _Shit_. 

* * *

"But why can't we?" Racetrack whined at Albert, clinging off the incredibly patient (but growing increasingly impatient at this particular moment) boy's arm. 

"Mr. Roberts is a homophobe, and deserves to get his garage spray painted."

And really, who better to serve justice than two teens who’d voice acted animated superhero raccoons side by side? 

( _The Masked and the Furryous_ , with an estimated net-loss of almost $70 million)

"Mr. Roberts has security cameras, and if I get arrested, my parents will kill you." 

"You mean they'll kill _you_ ," Racetrack corrected as Albert so rudely shrugged him away once again. 

"Nope. They know you're the problem. Bad influence Racetrack." 

Racetrack gasped in offense, then switched his voice into an impressive imitation of Mrs. DaSilva. 

"Albert, honey, you shouldn't hang out with the wonderfully famous and handsome Racetrack. He's too cool and good and sexy. It will only hurt your fragile self esteem.”

Albert was ignoring him entirely too efficiently, Race noted. He’d have to step it up. 

“And don’t worry, the doctor says it’s just fine for you to have such an undersized - ow!” Racetrack yelped at the jacket sleeve smacking him in the face, but he had to be proud of the reaction, in any case. 

“Shut up,” Albert grumped at him like an angry red raccoon. “Can we please not get a noise complaint today?” 

Racetrack was about to respond with something that no doubt would have been brilliant, when he was distracted from trying to come up with something brilliant on the spot. 

He was distracted by another spot, a capital-S Spot, to be precise. 

“Albie, Albie, look!” Race tugged on Albert’s arm. 

“It’s the guy I told you about! Stuntman boy!”

“The hot one?” Albert turned to look, entirely too obviously for Racetrack’s comfort. 

“No! Well, yes, he _is_ hot, but he’s also a stick-in-the mud who must be converted to the church of chaos.”

Racetrack wasn’t looking at Albert anymore, but he was willing to bet his best friend was currently rolling his eyes. 

“So are you gonna introduce me to your latest fling, Race, or do we just stare at his ass from afar.”

  
Racetrack tapped his chin thoughtfully. 

“Sounds like a good plan to me. Quit slapping me! This is abuse and I will call the police and your mom.”

Race gave Albert the most pathetic look he could manage, but was only given cruel, nasty, bullying laughter in response. 

Maybe because Race was clearly joking. No, Albert was just a cruel demon-boy. The flames-from-hell hair was proof enough. 

And then Race got an idea. An awful idea. Race had an awful, wonderful idea. 

Albert was a demon, Spot was a stick in the mud. Surely they wouldn't get along! 

This could be such _fun!_

“Hey, Spot!” Race shouted, waving like a maniac before Albert could have time to stop him. 

“Is that you?” 

Race had always been a huge fan of fireworks. 


	10. In which : I give Spot A Flaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt like I made Spot a little too perfect, and I needed to exaggerate something, as well as provide a little more conflict so it would truly be enemies to lovers. 
> 
> It's not enemies to lovers if Race likes him still!
> 
> Please comment and tell me what u think!  
> Comments inspire me to write more!

"Hey, Spot! Is that you?" 

Yes, it was Spot, and he desperately wanted to slam his head into the pavement right at this particular moment.

Spot briefly considered pasting a fake smile across his face, but decided against it. He'd never be able to make it look convincing, and at this point, he didn't care what Racetrack thought. 

Instead, he turned around with the blankest, most neutral look he could manage. 

"How are you?"

Maybe extreme politeness would rub off on this idiot. Probably not, but Spot could hope. 

"Absolutely  _ wonderful, _ Spotty, thank you for asking."

Racetrack's sing song-y voice made it extremely difficult for Spot to restrain himself from punching the guy in the teeth. 

Those teeth were very expensive. Might be fun to knock them out. 

_ Sean, be nice _ , Aaron's voice chided in his head. 

_ Save it for your kickboxing match. _

Fine, Aaron's-life-lessons-that-still-held-residence-in-Spot's-mind. He'd save the annoyance for some other time. 

Even though he was still very annoyed. 

"I'm Albert." The other boy offered a gesture that was somewhere between a wave and a shrug, and Spot nodded noncommittally in response. 

He didn't want to be an ass, but if this dude was a friend of Racetrack's, Spot doubted they'd get along too well. 

"Spotify here is the guy making sure my neck doesn't break," Race announced, flailing his arms in Spot's general direction. 

"Don't call me that."

Spot didn't like this whole chummy act Racetrack had for some reason decided would define their working relationship, and he especially didn't like being "the guy keeping Racetrack alive". 

Judging by what Spot had seen on the internet, Racetrack was very very bad at not being an idiot. 

"Why not, Spotnik?"

"The hell is a Spotnik?" The question was out before Spot could stop himself, and held entirely too much interest in this conversation. 

Albert laughed at Spot's confusion, and he decided right there that anyone who associated with Racetrack on purpose was probably an asshole or a whackjob. 

"Didn't you have a childhood?" He snorted, and Spot bristled. 

"Yes, I did." Spot gritted his teeth to keep from snapping something he'd regret later. 

He'd had a childhood for about seven years. Then the Thing happened. The Thing that Spot didn't think about now, because if he did that, he'd either explode or break down crying, and neither of those were desirable at this particular moment. 

He'd been worn out from running just a few minutes before, but now Spot just wanted to move, do  _ something _ . He didn't care what, he just needed to clear his head. 

"So…" Racetrack sidled up beside Spot, very much invading his personal space. 

"What's a nice little boy like you doing out so late? And all alone, you could get-" 

Spot didn't mean to slam the guy into the light post, really, he didn't. 

But he did do it, and that was definitely bad, no matter his intentions. 

Spot took a few steps backwards, ready to jump into action if Race or Albert were suddenly and understandably unhappy. 

He could probably win a fight against them, even outnumbered, but what Spot couldn't do was win without getting some kind of injury. 

Bruises were conspicuous and raised questions, and anything else would seriously impact his ability to work. 

Spot felt his tongue stick in his throat at the apology he was trying to push out. Hei couldn't do it. He couldn't force himself to pretend to be sorry when he really wasn't. Not to this asshole, that was for sure. 

Racetrack was back on his feet now, eyes narrowed as he clutched at his stomach. 

"What the  _ fuck _ was that for?"

_ Fuck. _

That was all Spot's brain supplied for him to say, and that would probably not be a great response in this situation.

"Just-just leave me alone," he managed to snap out, turning and walking away with as much self-control as possible. He didn't even know where he was  _ going _ , but far away from this sounded good. 

"Hey!" 

Albert shouted at Spot's back. He broke into a run, down the road and away as fast as his legs could manage. 

* * *

Spot didn't stop running until he finally arrived back at the hotel. He collapsed on the curb under a streetlight, shielded by a stranger's conveniently parked minivan. 

"Fuck…" he whispered, burying his face in his arms. 

Spot had royally screwed this up, that was for sure. 

He was  _ so  _ fired. No way would Racetrack keep his stupid mouth shut about this, and really, Spot couldn't blame him. Race hadn't really even _done_ anything this time. His joke was dumb, but not punch-him-in-the-gut level of dumb. 

Sure, the guy was a dick and incredibly annoying, but Spot was absolutely not supposed to lose his temper like that over something so insignificant. 

He'd been doing so good about that lately…

God, what would his family say? They'd be so disappointed. Sure, Sophie and Aaron would pretend not to be upset, but Spot knew they would be. 

Nobody ever said it, but Spot made a good chunk of the money for their family. More than a high school teacher like Aaron or a glorified retail worker like Sophie could hope to make, that was for sure. 

He stood up and started to pace, blinking fast to keep from crying.

They really needed the money, and now Spot and his stupid temper had all but stolen that from his family. 

Romeo was still a growing kid, and he ate like it. Aaron couldn't  _ really _ see with his glasses anymore; needed a new prescription, and Smalls… 

It was a struggle to afford her doctor's visits even when Spot  _ didn't  _ fuck up his job. 

Spot sat back down on the curb again. He didn't cry, as much as he felt like he needed to. 

Really, he was back to feeling angry. Angry and tired. Spot realized all of a sudden that he'd run significantly more than planned, and every single part of his body felt like Jell-o. 

Would he even have the energy to get inside? He was a mess, Spot knew that much. This hotel had security; he'd seen them. 

Spot didn't feel up to the conversation any security guard worth his salt would inevitably want to have with a rumpled, probably sketchy looking teen hanging around outside a hotel at… Spot glanced at his watch. 11:47. 

He really needed to get to sleep, Spot realized. 

Maybe if he was on time tomorrow, got in to work before Racetrack, he could explain himself… 

Maybe. 

Spot sighed and got to his feet. He didn't have much hope, but some was better than none, right?


	11. Waffles with Elmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw for a brief joke about drugs

"Hey, are you alright?"

_Fuck._

Spot looked up from his moping and was greeted by a boy who looked to be around his age. He had shaggt dark hair framing an open, childish face and curious eyes, and an interesting fashion sense, to say the least. 

He wore a baggy t-shirt and lavender plaid pajama pants that were just long enough to drag a tiny bit on the ground, in addition to crocs that were absolutely covered in shoe charms, like, an absurd number of charms. 

More charms than the shoes had holes, surely? Did he cut extras, just to fit more charms?

Spot was almost entranced by the sheer number of charms on those bright yellow foam shoes. Wow, he was more exhausted than he'd thought, staring directly at another guy's feet like they were some sort of optical illusion. 

Today had been… not great, in Spot's personal, very negative and upset opinion. He really wasn't at all in the mood for more conversation right now, not even with a boy who for some reason was wandering around a dark hotel parking lot in his pajamas. 

"I'm fine," he mumbled, trying very hard to look like someone who wasn't obviously lying about his fine-ness, or lack thereof. 

"No, you're not. I'm not stupid."

The boy looked up at the dark, starless sky. 

"Looks like rain. You been staying at the hotel?" He nodded in the direction of the neat, cream-colored building. 

Spot nodded, not entirely sure where this conversation was headed. Would he have any reason to be hanging around the parking lot if he _wasn't_ staying in the hotel? Certainly not any good, upstanding-citizen type reason, that was for sure.

Did Spot really look that much like a drug addict today? 

He could see the news headline now : _Crackhead Assaults Child-Star Over Literally Nothing_

"I'm Elmer," the boy interrupted Spot's mental newsreel. 

"My family runs this charming establishment." He gestured again to the, admittedly pleasant-looking hotel. 

Well, that explained the Wandering-Outside-at-Night thing, but not the Talking-To-Spot thing. 

"I'm Spot," he offered the most superficial information possible. Spot didn't want to give this stranger any personal information to go off of, not right now. 

"Nice ta meetcha," Elmer said cheerfully, sticking out a hand to help Spot to his feet. 

"Come on." Rain had started drizzling lightly. 

"I don't wanna get soaked, and I bet you don't either."

Well, that was true, Spot had to admit. Wasn't like he had anything better to do than follow this Elmer kid inside, now did he?

* * *

Spot wasn't sure how exactly, but he found himself seated at one of the tables in the little dining area, the room dimly lit by a single lamp Elmer had swiped from the front desk and plugged in next to the enormous waffle machine. 

It made no difference that Spot wasn't hungry; Elmer was dead set on feeding him despite all protests. 

He had to wonder what would happen if this guy met Sophie. They'd probably co-mother-hen the devil himself into a model citizen. 

"Bon appetit, " Elmer declared, aggressively tossing an impressively thick waffle onto a plate in front of Spot. 

"It a thicc boy, eat up."

Spot snorted a laugh, but did as he was told. 

Yeah, this waffle could turn the devil back into an angel, no problem, Spot realized as he dug in. 

"You're a great cook," he mumbled through a mouthful of waffle in a way that absolutely would have made his aunt incredibly disappointed in his table manners. 

"Just waffles." Elmer plopped down and began to drown his own waffle in syrup. He looked over at Spot in judgemental horror.

"You eat them plain? Heathen!"

"I don't like sugar," Spot said with a shrug. Romeo was the one with the sweet tooth; Spot usually just wanted carbs. Any and all carbs.

"More syrup for me then." 

Elmer proceeded to flip the bottle of syrup upside down over his waffles. 

Something about that made Spot's heart hurt with homesickness, the way it looked so much like a Romeo thing to do. 

He sighed before he even realized it was happening, and Elmer looked up, head cocked owlishly. 

"So why were you out in the parking lot?"

Spot had been expecting the question, but that didn't mean he had an answer that wasn't overly complicated and not good to tell a total stranger. 

"I mean, we've all got hobbies and whatever," Elmer continued to ramble, flailing a piece of waffle around on the end of his fork. 

"But most of us don't hang around parking lots at midnight. I mean, I do, but that's cause I forgot my charger in the car."

Elmer looked at Spot expectantly. 

"So why were you out there?"

"I'm assuming you wouldn't believe me if I said stargazing?"

The noisy thunderstorm outside made that lie pretty obvious, considering the city lights combined with cloud cover made seeing stars literally impossible. 

"Yeah, no. You definitely weren't." Elmer stuffed another bite of waffle in his mouth. 

"I mean, you don't _have to_ tell me, but I did make you waffles, so at least come up with a funny lie."

Spot offered his best attempt at a smile, and decided to go with the truth. 

"Honestly? I needed to burn off some energy, so I went for a run."

Okay, maybe it was a selective truth, but at least nothing he'd said was an outright lie. 

This Elmer guy seemed pretty cool, but he didn't need to know every little detail. 

Luckily, he didn't question Spot anymore, and instead just shoveled more waffle into his face. 

Spot leaned back in his chair, finally feeling a bit more relaxed. Maybe he was just stressing out over nothing. 

Now that he had real food inside his stomach, things _did_ look a bit less grim. 

It wasn't like Racetrack was known for getting along with people, and none of them got fired.

Spot pushed thoughts of Blink's comment about his father to the back of his mind.

Things would be fine. 

And if they weren't, what exactly was he doing to do about it at 12:30?


	12. Writer's bloooockkkkkkkk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help I'm dying.  
> I dont know how movie filming works and I dont know how to write Racetrack as a characteeeerrrrr.  
> Writing is hard and I hate myself.

Racetrack gnawed on his lip, trying to decide if he should be petty or not. He wasn't _normally_ petty, but it really sounded like an appealing idea at the moment. 

Racetrack did not like having _random people_ put their hands all over him, thank you very much. Especially not when they were mad at him. 

Nope, that was not fun at _all._

Race shuddered at the feeling still creeping around his skin. 

Touchy touchy was _not fun_ , 0/10 no sir. 

Race was not handling this situation very well at all. 

"Race, how about you sit down and chill out?"

Jack lounged across Racetrack's bed, quite effectively taking up the entirety of what was honestly a pretty big bed. 

"I _can't,"_ Racetrack whined, sitting down on top of Jack. 

"What am I supposed to do?"

He gestured vaguely at absolutely nothing. 

"Don't look at me," Jack shoved Race off his lap and knocked him onto the floor. 

"You dragged me out of bed at like, twelve thirty. I am not under any obligation to think."

Race curled into a ball and started rocking back and forth, scrunching his face thoughtfully. 

"He just fucking punched me! I wasn't even being _that_ annoying!"

"So you tell Medda." Albert flipped the page in his magazine, apparently settling in to stay the night, if the fact that he was wearing Racetrack's pajamas was any indicator. 

"And then he's gone. Get a new stunt guy, one who doesn't have a temper to match your stupidity."

As appealing as that sounded…

"I don't know…" Race shook his head. 

He still felt really bad about that time he'd almost gotten Mr. Denton, the guy who was in charge of like, half the casting now. 

He was pretty sure the guy's son still hadn't forgiven him for that one, and that had been an accident; Race couldn't imagine going and _on purpose_ ruining someone's livelihood. 

But… he _could_ ruin the guy's life, right? Just temporarily… for fun. Innocent fun, nothing more. 

"I've got a better idea."

Jack and Albert looked up at each other, an obvious concern that Race didn't feel like processing painted across both their faces. 

Why was everyone always so _concerned_ about him? Race wasn't concerning; he knew exactly what he was doing!

He walked into the wall on purpose. Comedic effect. 

Obviously. 

* * *

Race should stop having ideas that required waking up on time. 

He actually managed to get to the set on time this morning. Early, even, which didn't _ever_ happen. 

"Racetrack, how nice to see you not running through the door!"

Mary, official parking lot guardian and gatekeeper (according to the name badge Jack had made her when he was six, that she was currently wearing) greeted Race when he walked through the front door. 

Filming inside was nice, solely because it meant air conditioning in the summer and heating in the winter. 

Also, wifi, which was exceptionally nice when Racetrack was there early enough to actually have to _wait_. 

Boredom was a small price to pay for the look on Spot's face when he came in. 

A weird mixture of nausea and surprise that would have made Race laugh, except that would have ruined everything. 

"Alright, let's get started!" Medda announced, clapping her hands together. 

Race gave Spot a sweet smile, just to see the guy squirm a little bit. 

Spot cringed, and Racetrack felt a mix of satisfaction and guilt. 

Maybe he should just let it go, let bygones be- Spot grabbed his sleeve, tugging Race to the side. 

"I don't know what the _fuck_ your game is, but I don't like it."

"Hey!" Race shoved him away. 

"Don't touch me, you asshole!"

He rolled his shoulder to get the feeling of being grabbed off his arm. 

Racetrack did not like being grabbed like that, not at all. 

"Anthony, Sean! Stop this, right now."

_Oops._

Racetrack winced at the use of his real name. Medda didn't usually call him that, and she certainly didn't give him that look. 

Well, not usually this early in the morning. Normally it took at least a few hours. 

"Sorry, Medda." Racetrack offered her a little smile. 

Oh, she was _mad_. Didn't even smile back. 

"Act like adults, please. Anthony, you should know better."

She turned to Spot. 

"Sean I don't know you, but your reputation would say higher of you."

Racetrack suppressed a smile at the look that crossed Spot's face. 

"Sorry, ma'am. Won't happen again."

Medda waved his apology away, thank goodness. 

Race would still feel bad if this asshole got fired, even if he kinda deserved it. 

"Okay, with that settled, we're going to _actually_ get started now. Racetrack?"

He perked up instinctively; if Medda was using his nickname, then she wasn't mad still. 

"For today, you're working with Sandra. Now…"

And with that, Racetrack settled into the rhythm he understood, his confusing, chaotic, wonderful normal.  
  



	13. Introducing CRUTCHIEEEEEE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I needed to add Crutchie, sorry not sorry.  
> I really do be going through things right now and I need him to help me cope.  
> David will likely be coming along as well, since I'm very sad and very anxious and he makes me feel slightly better.  
> So yeah. I'm not having a very cash money time at the moment.   
> 
> 
> TW for mentions of past injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter because I'm writing this between classes and also Im sad and tired and I feel weird inside. Not having a good time rn I will be honest.

Spot didn't know what to think. 

He clearly wasn't fired, not yet, but he still might be later. What was Racetrack's game? And maybe more importantly, why was he hiding it? 

Spot didn't like it one bit. Not that he had the time to worry about it, not right now. 

Right now, he had to work, and when Spot worked, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by worry, not if he wanted his skull to stay in one piece.

He ran one hand through his hair and told himself to focus. Today wasn’t exactly dangerous, just basic sparring to “see what he could do,” but Spot was well aware that he was inching very close to thin ice with the director here. 

He needed to learn to play nice, and he had to do it soon. 

Remembering to play nice got complicated when your entire job involved very much not playing nice, Spot though with what almost could be considered a smile. 

Sure, it looked like he was really fighting, but nobody got hurt. Usually. 

Sometimes Spot’s joints thought it would be fun to escape from their sockets like a bunch of uprooted plants, but he was pretty good at putting them back. 

That didn’t mean he  _ wanted  _ it to happen, of course, so Spot got to work stretching. 

Shaking his arms loose, Spot bent backwards as far as he could, which unfortunately was not very far still. He’d never been particularly flexible, just sturdy. 

His back popped, and Spot finally felt the tension in his stomach start to dissipate. That feeling of everything cracking and popping after just waking up a few hours ago was quite possibly Spot’s favorite feeling in the world, the absolute most satisfying sensation ever. 

It was a weird favorite thing, sure, but Spot knew plenty of weirder things to like. For example, pictures of bald horses. Where had Racetrack even  _ found  _ that? Did he just Google “Bald horses” and see what came up? 

Who did that? And why -  _ fuck. _

Spot found himself in an ungainly heap on the ground, thankfully with every joint still in its correct position. 

He really needed to stop getting distracted. 

“You need help?” The voice came as a surprise, and even more of a surprise was who it came from. 

“Charlie?” 

“Not Charlie anymore,” he said with a rueful smile. “Most folks prefer Crutchie now.” 

He gestured to the crutch that Spot hadn’t noticed before just then. 

“What happened?” Spot immediately winced in embarrassment of himself at how invasive of a question that was. Spot hadn’t seen Charlie in  _ years, _ not since the other boy had moved, so this was really not a great time for that kind of question. 

“I fell, bad. It got seriously jacked up,” Charlie/Crutchie explained as Spot hopped to his feet. 

“No more stunt work for me.” 

The boy was trying to sound unbothered, but Spot could hear the sadness in his voice. Charlie had always been an amazing stuntman, or stunt-boy, to be more accurate. 

“So what are you doing here?” Spot gestured around the squishy padded room. 

“Hunting elephants,” Charlie said with the blankest look Spot had ever seen a human being plaster across their face. 

And then he burst out laughing, before Spot could ask what the  _ fuck  _ that was supposed to mean.

“I’m here on an internship,” he explained. “Medda has like, a million of interns on this project. It’s weird as heck, but I’m not gonna complain.” 

Spot nodded along with the increasingly fast-paced conversation, focusing half on listening, half on stretching his calves. 

“How’s your sister doing?”

Spot stiffened at the mention of Smalls, nearly toppling over. He’d forgotten, Charlie had been his friend for ages. He  _ knew. _

“She’s doing okay.” Spot tried to keep his voice even. “Gets tired a lot, but she’s been fine.”

He really did not want to talk about this now, not even with such an old friend. 

Family stuff was for family, not old friends who you hadn’t seen since wrestling team freshman year. 

“Romeo got a hamster,” he added, since that was the only subject change that popped into his head. 

His head was very confused and conflicted at the moment, and it was giving Spot a stomachache. 

Really, Spot didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, he was glad to have a friend on set, especially now that it seemed like he was getting very close to causing real trouble for himself. 

On the other hand, seeing Charlie now, unable to do the work he’d spent a good chunk of his life learning was, to put it simply, terrifying. 

If something like that could happen to Charlie, then it could happen to Spot, too. And Spot wasn’t smart enough to find a different job. This was all he knew, and they desperately needed him to make it work. 

For Smalls, for Romeo, for Piggy the hamster. 

Spot had to make this work. 


	14. I do not work in film, as you can see.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do not work in the film industry. I am making this up 100%.  
> This is why updates take me a bit longer than I'd like sometimes, because I dont know what I'm talking about in the slightest.
> 
> Also I'm writing this in the rain like a weirdo.

Racetrack chugged his water bottle, tossed it into the recycle bin, and flopped back into his folding chair, flipping the stupid metal thing back against the floor. 

He just barely managed to repress a string of curses, mostly because Medda was right there and still kind of mad at him. 

She'd stop being mad at him when he died of a concussion in 3-5 business days, as was how concussions worked. Probably. Possibly. 

Racetrack (and GodsHumbleClown) knew very little about concussions. Maybe Spot would know. That sounded like something a stunt guy would know, right?

Of course the fact that Spot probably didn't want to talk to him could be a _small_ snag in that little plan. 

Racetrack wanted to wonder why Spot wouldn't talk to him, but he knew the answer, and it didn't make him feel good. 

It felt downright bad, if he was being completely honest with himself, and that was not something Racetrack was accustomed to feeling. Mostly he did his best to avoid bad-feeling situations, or at least pretend like they weren't bad. 

"Do you need help?" 

Racetrack jumped at the voice, suddenly remembering that he was lying flat on his back in a tipped over chair, which probably did make it look like he needed help. 

He looked at the upside down face above him, a perfectly nice face that he kind of recognized. 

Not enough to put a name to it, which was unusual. Racetrack prided himself in knowing at least _something_ about just about everybody on set. 

"This is on purpose," he promised the boy, wiggling around to get off his back and sit up. 

"An acting thing. Helps me get into the mindset."

New boy raised his eyebrows. "Sure. That's definitely the reason." 

Oh, Racetrack liked him. He was like Albert. 

"I'm Racetrack."

The boy laughed. 

"I'm aware. My name's David." He offered a hand out, whether to shake or to offer assistance, Race wasn't sure, so he chose to go in for a high five instead.

Thank goodness David laughed again, because Race didn't know if he could stand more people getting offended at his humor today. Spot and Medda were already too many. 

Well, Spot had kind of been intentional, but still. 

David ran a hand through his curly hair with an impressive amount of awkwardness. "You're okay though?" 

Racetrack nodded. He was very experienced in having people worry and fuss about his safety to the extreme. That was life when you were basically a meal ticket for heaps and heaps of people. 

"I'm David," the boy introduced himself again, and then frowned. 

"I already said that."

Racetrack laughed, and David shook his head with a little smile. 

"David Jacobs?" 

He nodded. _That_ was where Racetrack knew him from. David had been in a few smaller films, the kind Racetrack would watch with Jack and Albert to pick apart and criticize like Statler and Waldorf from The Muppets. 

"I must confess, I didn't actually pay attention when Medda told me who else was acting in this." 

Racetrack tried to ignore the way David looked just a tiny bit disappointed, and was halfway successful. 

He almost didn't feel guilty about it. 

"Alright, people!" Sandra's announcement interrupted all nonexistent feelings of guilt as Racetrack turned on his work-brain. 

"We're going to start off with something simple today, just to give everyone new an idea of how a Medda Larkin filming schedule works. Now," she clapped her hands, pointing directly at David, who jumped about a mile into the air at the sudden attention. 

"Can you cry on command?"

David blinked in confusion, and Racetrack struggled to keep from laughing. Sandra, one of Medda's favorite people to work with, definitely took some getting used to. Racetrack loved working with Medda; she made everything much more interesting than a lot of other directors. 

"I- yes?" David stuttered out, fidgeting with the hem on his shirt. 

"Do you need me to… now?" 

Sandra shook her head, swishing curly brown hair all over the place. 

"Nope, just needed to know. I should have that written down somewhere, but I'm a fool and forgot my binder at home. Racetrack?" 

The subject changed quickly from David to Race, and neither of them had a problem with that. 

"You need to get your face taken care of. Show David where to go. " 

She waved the two off in the general direction, as if Racetrack actually knew where he was going. 

He'd never actually been in this building before, so most likely they'd get lost, but David didn't need to know that. 

"Come on," he motioned for the other boy to follow him. 

"Let's get this started."

* * *

Racetrack always forgot how much he didn't like sitting still until he had to have someone paste makeup all over him. 

"Anthony, quit _wiggling_ ," Finch scolded, trying desperately to do the impossible and get Racetrack to sit still for more than thirty seconds.

The youngest makeup artist Medda had was great, but even he couldn't be expected to manage that. 

"Sorry," Racetrack apologized with very little remorse. 

"David's fidgeting, go yell at him."

Such injustice in this little "room" that smelled a suffocating amount like hairspray. 

"David's not messing Sebastian's work up with his fidgeting, so you just hush."

David looked uncomfortable at suddenly being up for discussion again, and Race found himself wondering how exactly the guy managed to be an actor if he hated attention so intensely. 

Medda sure had a talent for finding interesting people. Was she the one who found people? Race was pretty sure she didn't, but didn't she choose them? Was that part of a director's job? Why didn't Racetrack know that? He should know that, surely. 

" _Thank you,_ " Finch said in exasperation. Racetrack's distraction inside his own head apparently kept him still enough for Finchy to finish. 

"Do I look pretty?" Finch patted his head. 

"Yes, very pretty, Anthony. Now shoo. I have more to do than just make you pretty."

"Not like it's _hard_ ," Racetrack whined, but he got up anyway. 

He did really want to go someplace with breathable air. 

Breathing was always cool. Very cool.


	15. No, I have not abandoned this fic. It's just sleepy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing is hard and I only have ideas for my Birds fic. But now I have ideas for this one, so maybe I'll get back to updating, but only time will tell.

Spot sat next to Racetrack during lunch that day, and this time, it was almost enjoyable. Well, maybe enjoyable was stretching it, but he didn't get up and leave, at least. 

And nobody was at each other's throats. Always a plus. 

"So, you're from Indiana?" Race was actually making not-insanely-invasive conversation, and thank goodness for that. Spot didn't want to lose this job. 

He nodded along, poking at his food absently. Spot wasn't particularly hungry today, which didn't make sense, considering he'd actually done stuff, actual, physical stuff. 

He felt kind of queasy, probably just leftover nerves from the whole "am I going to lose my job" thing. 

"What's it like?" 

How did one describe the most boring city in one of the most boring states in the country? _Home,_ said the voice Spot's head. But Racetrack wouldn't get that. 

"Corn. Soybeans. That's about it." Spot shrugged. 

"My family's there though." 

And _God,_ he missed them. 

"I haven't seen my mom in _months_ ," Race announced, so cheerful that Spot couldn't help but be suspicious. 

"She's in France, I think." He tilted his chair back precariously. 

"What do you mean, you _think?_ "

Spot couldn't imagine not seeing Sophie for months at a time, though he supposed he'd better get used to the idea. That was more than likely what would be happening this time around. 

"She sent me a postcard a few days ago, but that doesn't mean she's _actually_ there," Race explained, before tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. 

"Maybe I should be the stunt man." He grinned in satisfaction. 

Spot chuckled, internally questioning whether he was supposed to comment on the Mom Thing or not. 

He didn't want to, in all honesty. That was a bit too deep of a conversation considering they were actually having a sort of good time. 

Why did Racetrack have to info dump on him the second they started getting along? Couldn't he talk about _normal_ things? Not that Spot knew what normal people talked about. 

He didn't have normal friends, just his family, really. It was kind of hard to make long lasting friendships when you occasionally left town in the middle of the school year and then got held back a grade twice because of it. 

Spot wasn't stupid, he knew he wasn't stupid. He just didn't understand school stuff, and had no time to study and actually learn anything. 

Racetrack, on the other hand, was known for being a bit of a prodigy, according to, well, just about everyone on the planet. His education was basically public, a thought that made Spot want to curl up and die of shame. 

Imagining what the world would think about his grades was humiliating, to say the least. 

Genius boy, on the other hand, clearly did not feel shame, ever, and was at that particular moment making a tower of jello that was absolutely going to- 

Yep. It fell over. 

All over the table, making a huge mess. 

Racetrack cackled gleefully, smashing the sticky, wiggly mess down with his fork. 

"Smurfs Jelly!" He declared, smearing blue goop everywhere like a literal toddler might, all the while cursing the smurfs, which a toddler probably wouldn't do. 

"Hey!" The older brother in Spot came out full-force. "Clean that up, you're making a mess." 

Racetrack made a face in Spot's general direction, which made him feel a weird mixture of irrationally angry, and something warm and soft that Spot didn't know how to describe. 

"Okay _mom."_

Racetrack grabbed a handful of napkins and started to smear his mess around, not cleaning anything at all whatsoever. 

Spot sighed, reaching over to help. 

"Were you raised in a barn?"

"I was raised in a mansion." Race said cheerfully, and to his credit, he did seem to be _trying_ to help clean the mess up. 

Trying and failing, but still, trying had to count for something, right?

Spot managed to get the table cleaned up, sort of, though it was still a bit sticky and bluish. He'd better go get water for that. 

"Be right back," Spot said, pushing back his chair. He pointed at Racetrack sternly. "Sit still. Don't move, or do anything, you human disaster."

Racetrack laughed gleefully, proceeding to wriggle around in his chair as much as humanly possible. 

Spot shook his head, but inside, he was laughing. Maybe this Racetrack guy was cool after all. 

A nice woman who had previously been serving food to some of the crew very kindly loaned Spot a wet rag, and he was on his way back to clean up after Racetrack, when he was interrupted. 

"Sean, I need to talk to you." Denton put a hand on his arm. 

Shit. The man looked serious. Spot flipped through the metaphorical filing cabinet of his brain to try and come up with something he'd done wrong recently, but found nothing. Nothing that he hadn't already been scolded over, at least. 

"What's wrong?" He tried to sound casual, but that was easier said than done. 

"Come on," Denton glanced around at the crowded room. Racetrack half stood, looking at them questioningly. 

"Let's go someplace private."

Well, it wasn't like Spot had any choice in the matter, now did he? 

He trailed behind the man out into the hallway, desperately wracking at his brain to figure out what this could possibly be about. 

Denton faced him, an unreadable but certainly not good expression covering his face. 

"I just got a call from your family," he began gently. 

Spot's heart jumped out of his chest and into his mouth. 

"It's your sister."


	16. Good friends tolerate saliva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing! And that's ok!

_Smalls_ . _No, no, no, not her. Anything but her._

Spot took half a second to calm his breathing before responding to Denton.

"What-what happened?" 

_Please, please, please don't let her be gone. She can't be gone_.

"Medda talked with your mother. She's…not doing good, I'm afraid." Denton gave Spot a caring, sympathetic look, and Spot wanted to run away from it, wanted to vomit, scream, do _something_ , but he was frozen in place. 

"They want you to come home."

The _just in case_ hung heavy in the air. Just in case Smalls didn't make it. Just in case this was goodbye. 

"Medda approved everything, and she said to insist on personally paying for your flight." 

Spot nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

Denton put a hand on Spot's shoulder. It was probably meant to be comforting, but Spot hardly felt it. 

"When do I go home?" He managed to choke out. He had to get home as soon as possible. 

"The flight leaves this evening at six. You should be home by midnight, their time." The man gave Spot a _look_. 

"Sean, I'm truly sorry. I know this must be-" Spot interrupted before that thought could go any farther. 

"I should go get my stuff together. I'll be ready by four." He turned and walked away, hoping nothing Denton had to say was important. He couldn't stay and listen, not without completely breaking. 

Spot knew full well that he was going to completely and totally lose his composure sooner or later, but he'd much rather the inevitable breakdown be somewhere a bit more private. 

For now, he'd take it one thing at a time. Get back to the hotel, grab his things, get to the airport. One step after the other, and he wouldn't think. Wouldn't think about how it might be too late by the time he got home, and Smalls could be- No. 

She was _fine_ . She had to be. Smalls was a fighter; she wouldn't… wouldn't… _go_ like that. 

Spot couldn't bear to think the word _die_ , not about his sister. 

She'd be okay. She had to be. Spot didn't know what he would do if she wasn't. 

* * *

Racetrack tilted his desk chair back well beyond what the poor chair could realistically hold. Surprisingly (and fortunately) it didn't snap and drop him in a heap on the floor. 

" _He's_ allowed to just up and leave whenever, but when I'm fifteen minutes late, everyone's riding me about it!" 

Albert ignored his grumbling, like usual, and continued scrolling away at his phone. 

Jack was practicing his knot tying, and ignoring Racetrack quite effectively himself. 

"My dad's in town this week," Race blurted out without thinking. 

"Your dad?" Jack looked at him in confusion. "He's never in town."

Race nodded, letting the horrible feelings take over this time.

"And everything's _crazy_ on set, and the whole schedule is fucked, and I just know he's gonna be all disappointed."

 _Like usual,_ supplied his stupid, mean, bully of a mind. 

Richard Higgins (also known as Richard Basswood, because of course he couldn't have the public eye associating him with his fuckup of a son) was not particularly involved in Racetrack's life. 

"This show was a big deal!" Racetrack said, spinning his chair around. 

"He'd probably actually _like_ it, and now it's fucked, because _Spot_ had something better to do than his fucking _job._ "

Albert, for once, decided to be sympathetic and force Racetrack to hug him, very bird-like and quite out of character for Albert "Played a Demon Child in Third Grade and Liked It" DaSilva.

Not that Racetrack was _complaining_ , exactly, but it was unusual.

Jack threw aside the blanket he'd stolen from Racetrack's bed and joined the group hug.

"No homo," he insisted, and Race laughed, because Jack was pretty consistently very homo. 

Race licked Jack's ear, because that was all he could reach, and Jack squealed, shoving and flailing in such a way that Racetrack's poor, beat up and mistreated chair finally gave in to the strain and collapsed like a tower of Jell-O cubes but with slightly less mess and significantly less stickiness. 

Albert grumbled out some curses and thumped Race on the side of his head. 

"Ow! Bullying," Racetrack whined dramatically. "I am having a _crisis_ and this is how you treat me?" He flailed limply against Jack, who didn't laugh, but he did smile, and that was all Racetrack needed to know that any licking was forgiven. 

Good friends could tolerate a little saliva and some broken chairs. All in the name of friendship. 


	17. Writers block, knitting, and airplanes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beep beep here's another chapter.

By the time Spot boarded the plane, he was about ready to rip his fucking skin off to make it stop _twitching._

He wanted to be home. Home with Smalls. Home, now. 

His brain was starting to short circuit, unable to think beyond a few words at a time before circling back to just _Smalls_. 

He took his seat, and thank _God_ it was a window seat. He would have probably tripped somebody by fidgeting in the aisle, and driven everyone insane in the middle seat. 

Spot himself, of course, was already starting to go insane. _What if, what if, what if?_ His horrible, stupid fucking brain kept asking. 

What if she was gone when he got there? _Nothing was sure,_ he reminded himself. He just knew things "didn't look good." That didn't mean there was no hope at all, right?

There had to be hope. 

Spot wiped angrily at his eyes, glaring daggers at the old woman beside him, daring her to bring it up. 

She turned back to her knitting, completely unaffected by his silent threat. The soft click of her needles was the only thing keeping Spot sane at the moment, so he should probably be grateful. 

Spot shifted in the tiny airplane seat, trying to get at least a little comfortable. 

Left knee to his chest? No, now he was almost touching the lady next to him. Right knee? Scrunched against the window. Both? Well, now his stomach just hurt. 

His stomach hurt anyway from worrying so much. 

"Do you mind?" 

Apparently all the wiggling and shifting was starting to annoy Knitting Lady a bit. 

"Sorry," Spot managed to choke out, gripping at his knees to keep still. 

"Honey, are you alright?" She stared at him down her insect-like glasses. To his absolute mortification, Spot started to cry. 

He absolutely was _not_ alright, but it wasn't like anyone could _do_ anything about it, unless someone on this plane had a cure for cancer that they hadn't thought to tell anybody about. 

"Oh, honey," the old woman crooned, running a hand up and down his back as he sobbed. 

She had just the slightest southern accent, which Spot decided to focus intently on, rather than the fact that anyone within hearing range was almost certainly staring at him. 

"It's okay, honey. Just get it all out." Spot sat up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. The woman handed him a tissue, which was nice. He'd rather not get snot all over his only hoodie that wasn't worn to threads. 

Spot had no idea who this woman was, but he decided right then that she was probably an angel, as that was the only logical explanation. 

"Thanks," he sniffled, already more embarrassed than he would have thought possible. "Sorry for...that." 

She brushed off the apology. "Sweetheart, don't be sorry. Want to talk about it?"

Spot was surprised to find that he _did_ want to. He wanted to tell somebody, and have them listen. Wasn't like this lady could leave if she got tired of it; there was turbulence, which Spot was trying to avoid thinking about.

"I, uh, I'm going home to see my sister," he explained, fiddling with the sudoku book shoved into the pocket of the seat in front of him. 

"She's sick. Real sick. I don't know-" Spot felt his throat start to close again. 

"I don't know if she'll even be there when I get back." 

And then suddenly he was data dumping on this poor old woman, who continued to hand him tissues until his nose stopped dripping and his eyes at least sort of stopped leaking. 

Spot sighed and tried to catch his breath again.

 _That was embarrassing,_ he thought to himself, and then hated himself for being embarrassed that he loved his baby sister, and then hated himself for only thinking about Smalls in how she related to _him_ and-

"Here, honey, drink this." The lady forced a can of ginger ale into his hands. "Get some of that water back in you."

Spot didn't particularly like sodas, but he'd feel bad turning it down. Besides, the turbulence was making him kind of nauseous. 

"Thank you, miss…" Spot realized suddenly that he hadn't gotten her name yet. 

"Dorothy." She patted his shoulder. "Dorothy Williams." 

"Thanks, Miss Williams." 

She chuckled. 

"Just Dorothy, please." 

Spot nodded and sipped the drink. It did kind of calm his stomach, and make it stop doing it's own particularly annoying brand of stunt work. 

He still very much wanted the flight to be over, but he'd probably survive until they landed.

* * *

Sure enough, he did survive until they landed, though by that point, he was feeling very very twitchy and very ready to be home. What if's kept forcing their way into his head. What if something had happened, and he didn't know because his phone was off?

Spot gathered his carry-on and followed the flow of passengers leaving the plane. Dorothy waved goodbye, said something that he was sure was very nice and probably good advice or something, but he was way too busy looking for Aaron to pay attention. 

Finally he spotted the familiar face, picking his way through the crowd as quickly as possible. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence was good. It meant nothing had changed for the worse. 

Aaron broke the silence by asking "did you bring your luggage, or…" Spot shook his head, gesturing to his backpack. 

"Just this. Can we go?" 

Aaron nodded, fidgeting nervously with his sweater. 

"It's late, you're probably tired." 

"I want to see her." 

_Her_ meaning Smalls, obviously. 

Aaron nodded again, bobbing his head like a little penguin trying not to fall off an iceberg. 

Spot kind of felt like he'd already fallen off the iceberg. 

If anything happened to Smalls, he didn't know that he'd ever get back on.


	18. Smalls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot is a good brother.

Spot tapped one hand on the car door, until the light clicking started to annoy even him. He moved to his knee, which was quieter, but also now he was tapping his leg, and that was annoying. 

"How is she?"

Maybe he didn't want to know, but at least it was a distraction. 

"When I left, she was alright. It's an infection. She was awake for a bit, but the medication kept making her sleepy." Aaron kept his eyes on the road. 

Spot stared at the dashboard. It was covered in sparkly dragon stickers from that time Smalls got bored waiting in the grocery store parking lot when she was five. 

Part of Spot wondered why they never bothered to peel them off, but another part of him knew exactly why, and just didn't want to admit it. 

Spot fidgeted and fiddled with his seatbelt. 

"Can we not go any faster?" 

Aaron just stared at the road, completely focused.

"I'm going the speed limit."

"Well, go _faster_ , Aaron!" Spot snapped, then gripped the door as they nearly went off the road.

Well, fuck. Aaron was evidently a tad bit stressed. 

" _Sean,_ I know you're scared," Aaron began, gritting his teeth in a very un-Aaron like way. 

"But this is not helpful at all." 

Spot clenched his teeth tight enough to hurt, practicing the stupid breathing exercises that he _was not_ going to admit worked. 

"Sorry." 

He was. Really. Spot didn't want to snap at his uncle; Aaron was basically his dad. 

But the man was right. Spot was scared, and he hated that. 

Rock climbing? Sure, why not. Sparring someone twice his size? Spot _loved_ doing that. Motorcycle stunts? Ok, slightly scary, but if he wasn't at least _cautious_ about that, Spot absolutely would die. 

But that kind of apprehension was nothing compared to now. 

"It's alright," Aaron promised, sounding less stiff and more sad. 

"I know," he said softly. "I know." 

The rest of the drive passed in relative silence, Spot watching the clock and worrying, waiting for Aaron's phone to ring and tell them not to bother coming anymore.

It never did. Spot fidgeted with his seatbelt, the radio, the stickers on the dashboard. Who knew an hour could last about seven years?

* * *

They couldn't possibly hope to arrive at the hospital any earlier than one in the morning, but Aaron assured him that it would be fine, despite being well after visiting hours ended. He knew someone who knew someone who knew someone high up who was willing to bend the rules, "just this once". 

Spot hoped he was right. 

Sophie met them outside, leading a very sleepy Romeo along the sidewalk. 

"Sean," she half cried, half whispered, pulling him into a tight hug. 

"How is she?" 

Spot had one thing on his mind and one thing only. 

"She's…" Sophie sighed, clearly blinking back tears. 

"I don't know, sweetie. She's doing alright, but we haven't gotten all the test results back yet."

Spot bit down hard on his lower lip to keep every horrible feeling inside where it belonged. 

"Did you call our mom?"

_Not that she'd care._

Sophie's face twisted into an unreadable but all-too-familiar expression. 

"I can't get a response." Spot automatically noted the deliberateness of her answer. 

"I'm sure she's just busy and hasn't checked her phone."

If Spot had a nickel for every time he'd heard that one...

"Let's go inside," Aaron suggested, lifting Romeo up into his arms. "Is Greggi awake?"

Sophie nodded, her watery smile the only thing Spot could focus on. 

"Awake and wondering where Sean is."

Spot bounced on his heels impatiently, then stopped once he realized he was doing it. 

He should at least pretend to be an adult, right? But he couldn't stand to be still, not after that plane ride and then the car ride, both winding him up like one of those creepy monkey toys. 

"I've got to go call Andrea to let us in," Aaron said, then gave Spot a pointed look. 

"Sean, go run a lap or something. Burn off the energy." 

Spot would have protested, except he was probably going to explode if he didn't _move_. He'd happily take up the time before seeing Smalls to turn the stabbing in his chest and stomach to a burning in his muscles and lungs. 

* * *

Spot felt every part of himself relax when he saw Smalls, even his legs, which were now kind of tired from sprinting around for about five minutes straight. 

Smalls was awake, mostly, and hooked up to more machines than she was person. 

Spot always forgot how tiny his baby sister was. He could snap her in two so, _so_ easily. She was like a leaf. 

"Spot, why didn't you _call me?_ "

A leaf with the personality equivalent of a ball of flames. 

"I did call you," he protested, keeping his voice soft to avoid waking up the other kids. He climbed into the bed with Smalls, taking up most of it with his much-larger self. 

"I called you every night."

Smalls scowled at him, eyes twinkling even as everything else drooped with exhaustion. Despite apparently being "mad" at him, she let Spot put an arm around her shoulders, snuggling in to use him as a pillow. 

"Call me _more_ when you go back." 

She poked at his chest, and Spot crossed his heart. 

"Alright, alright, don't bite my head off."

Spot rubbed Smalls' head like he would if she had any hair to ruffle. 

The girl giggled, and Spot felt the horrible mass of nerves in his stomach start to dissolve. 

"Make a wish," she said, poking Spot _hard_ in the stomach. He grumbled in feigned pain, swatting her hand away with a laugh. 

Everything was going to be just fine. 

Smalls was okay. 

Alive and breathing and laughing and _okay._

Aaron settled Romeo onto the bed on the other side of Smalls, a squished pile of asleep, half asleep, and still wanting to go run five miles. 

Everything was going to be alright. 


	19. Planets and Lies

Spot stared at his bedroom ceiling, the one he’d spent the past ten years staring at every night. The little plastic stars from his fifth-grade obsession with astronomy glowed back at him, a soft, painfully constant reminder that he wasn’t a kid anymore. 

Mars dangled from it’s little thread, glowing orangey red right above his bed. Mars was Spot, Venus was Romeo, and Pluto was Smalls. That’s what they had decided way back when Spot started high school. Romeo could barely talk, but he knew which planet he wanted to be him. Smalls wanted the god of death, because of course she did. Pluto, god of death, and not considered a planet. Smalls felt such righteous anger on behalf of “her” planet. 

Lying on Spot's bed in a big pile, they'd had their own fragile little galaxy of just Pluto, Saturn, and Mars, circling the smiley face sun that only occasionally had batteries. 

And now Pluto had a fucking brain tumor, and the galaxy distorted beyond recognition. 

Insurance wasn’t going to cover _shit,_ Spot knew that already. It hadn’t covered anything up until now, and they didn’t have the money. He wouldn’t get paid in full until filming ended, and that wouldn’t be for months. 

Spot pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. It had to be fine. Smalls had to be fine. He couldn’t live without her. What would happen if Pluto fell out of orbit? Nothing good. Celestial bodies didn’t just go away without consequences on everything else, right? 

He stared at the little piece of plastic across the room. 

Aaron and Sophie asked him to put Romeo to bed for them, so they could “talk things out.” Spot didn’t mind doing it, but he did mind not knowing what was being talked about, not when his baby sister was almost certainly the main topic for discussion. 

"Spot?" 

Romeo's tiny voice surprised him. 

"Are you awake?"

"Yeah, I'm up. What's wrong?"

Romeo crawled out of bed and dragged his pillow pet cow along with him. 

"Can I sleep with you?" How could Spot say no to that?

He shifted his blanket open and gestured for Romeo to climb in. Romeo scrambled up, and Spot wondered when he'd gotten big enough to climb up the bed on his own. 

His little cousin snuggled close to Spot's side, resting his head on Spot's arm and hugging his cow close. 

"Is Smalls gonna be okay?" Well, somebody had heard something.

"I hope so," Spot whispered, trying to sound like he wasn't holding back tears. Romeo was silent for a moment. 

"We should pray for her," he decided. Spot tried not to wince. That wasn't his thing. Sophie and Aaron were religious, but they'd never cared if Spot was. Smalls decided she liked it, so she joined in. 

Spot never did quite "get it". 

He sighed, then pulled the blanket up a little higher. 

"You lead, alright?" 

Romeo was always happy to oblige, which meant Spot didn't have to know what to say. 

"Jesus and God, make Smalls better, please. That's our sister," he explained, eyes squeezed shut seriously. 

"She's very sick, and needs help. Please help her surgeries go well, and let her be better soon. Amen."

"Amen," Spot repeated with as much sincerity as he could manage. "Now go to sleep." He poked Romeo in the belly, bringing out a little fit of giggles. 

Romeo snuggled close to his side, taking up far more than his fair share of the bed, and quickly fell asleep. 

Spot stared up at the ceiling, running one hand absently through Romeo's dark curls. 

He didn't know how to feel about the whole God thing, but if there _was_ someone out there, someone with a plan, he just hoped they were listening. 

* * *

Racetrack fiddled with his jacket zipper, with his shoelaces, with the strings on his hood. 

So much to fiddle with, and so little time to fiddle. No, Racetrack was _not_ trying to distract himself from the fact that his dad would be meeting him soon. Why would he need a distraction from that? 

Normal father-son bonding. In a hotel. Because dad didn't want to go over to mom's house, even if she hadn't been there for months. 

Not that that was just a dad thing. Mom wouldn't go to his place either. Didn't want to touch anything related to him with a ten foot pole, it seemed like, and maybe that included Racetrack. He'd always had his dad's hair, apparently. 

Racetrack shook those thoughts from his head. 

Dad was coming to visit, and they could actually spend some time together. It would be… fun. He'd had fun with his dad before, right? 

Mr. Higgins had managed to fit a visit into his busy schedule, which meant he cared, and that was what mattered. 

If he tried hard enough, Race could almost convince himself it was true. He was very good at lying to himself. 

The familiar black car pulled up on the street, a vehicle that probably cost more than some houses did. Dad loved his cars. Racetrack liked cars too. This was fine. He and dad both liked cars, they both had jobs. Maybe dad was in business, and Racetrack was in acting, but that just meant faking it was both of their lives. Paid to lie, as dad liked to say. 

Racetrack tried to laugh. It wasn't funny. Mom always said it wasn't funny. That she didn't want to be married to a liar, but then she went and cheated, so who could talk, really, and-

Was Race dressed right? Dad always dressed so… nice. Racetrack felt stupid in his jeans, but there was no time to change now. Dad was getting impatient. 

He took a deep breath, set the alarm, and stepped out onto the porch, turning on the lie that Dad would like best. 


	20. "And I feel Daddy Issues in this Olive Garden tonight"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone please talk to me so I have motivation to write  
> Tw for brief drug reference

When you got into your dad's car, your hands were supposed to shake a little bit, right? Right. Racetrack was normal. And it was kind of cold in here, what with the air blasting and Dad's entire personality being a block of ice. 

"How's the filming been going?" Mr. Higgins finally broke the nearly physical icy presence. 

Race twitched, then tried to hide it by fiddling with the AC dial. 

"Pretty good so far. The schedule got delayed 'cause the stunt double guy had to bail for a few days."

"Because."

"What?" 

"The schedule got delayed _because_ the stunt guy had to bail. Use real words, Tony." It was always something stupid with Richard Higgins. 

"Cause is a real word," Racetrack pointed out. "Cause and effect, and stuff."

"Cause and effect," his father sniffed. "Cause: you get snippy with me. Effect: we can turn the damned car around if you'd rather spend the day alone in _her_ house." 

That kind of threat was an excellent way to get Racetrack to shut up. He didn't want to spend all day alone, thank you very much. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, fiddling with the AC dial some more. 

"Tony, quit messing with that. Sit still."

Richard didn't even seem to notice the way his son flinched at the harsh tone. He just kept his eyes on the road, half present as always. 

Finally, after ten awkward, silent minutes, they pulled up to the restaurant, and Racetrack was able to relax. Thank goodness, Dad had decided to go with something casual and normal. 

Racetrack liked Olive Garden. It was _almost_ fancy, but not really at all, and mostly filled with old people who didn't recognize him and post pictures of him eating all over social media. 

"Basswood, party of two," Richard announced to the lady working at the hostess stand. 

Could they not use their real name, even now? Racetrack shoved his disappointment deep down into his liver where it belonged, with all the other toxins. Dad's preferred name was a stupid thing to get worked up on. They were still family, even with different names. 

Racetrack sat down with his back to the room, facing his father. He focused on the menu instead of making conversation. 

"What can I get you boys today?" 

The elderly waitress was disturbingly cheerful, to the point that Racetrack wondered if someone might be pointing a gun at her from the back of the kitchen. 

Probably not. Racetrack turned back to the menu and quickly flicked the pages. 

"Cheese ravioli," he decided, as if he'd even consider anything else while out with Dad. Anything else and Racetrack would risk making a mess, and then Dad would give him that " _Why Do I Bother Bringing You Out In Public"_ look. 

"You should really branch out more," Richard commented after ordering his weird gross shrimp thing. 

"I don't think I've ever seen you order anything else from here."

Race lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 

"I think I've eaten other things, but I don't remember. It's been awhile since we came."

If Richard noticed the note of accusation, he didn't comment on it. 

The two sat quietly, but not a horrible quiet, at least not so far. They nibbled politely at breadsticks, which annoyed Racetrack to no end, because you weren't supposed to eat breadsticks delicately, you were supposed to shove as many as possible into your mouth as fast as possible.

Richard "Basswood" only knew how to be formal.

He clinked the ice in his glass of tea, giving Racetrack an intense and almost curious look. 

"So. Miss Medda Larkin." 

Racetrack smiled, spinning the straw around in his raspberry lemonade. Like a salamander in a mud puddle, he absolutely reveled in even the slightest sign of interest. Normally Dad sounded like somebody had tied him up, held a knife to his throat, and said "pretend to care," but this question sounded, dare he say, genuine?

"She's really cool." Race liked Medda a lot. She was a good director, but also knew how to take a joke every once in a while. That was basically a requirement for dealing with Racetrack Higgins, professional nuisance and stereotypical child celebrity.

Richard raised one eyebrow, and Racetrack suddenly felt like he'd said the wrong thing. 

"What?" 

Wasn't he supposed to like Medda? Or was Racetrack supposed to be at the point in his life where he hated his boss now? He didn't want to hate Medda! 

"She's hardly what I'd call a serious film director." 

Racetrack tried not to look irritated. That was his friend's _mom_. 

"I mean, really, Tony." 

Racetrack knew that voice very well. It was the _Tony, you're wasting your life_ voice. The _Tony, you're a disappointment but I don't want to admit it because that would mean I failed at something_ voice.

"I think you can find something better than _that_ by now. You aren't thirteen anymore."

"It's an action TV show," Racetrack pointed out, trying very hard not to sound "snippy". 

"It's a glorified sitcom." 

Racetrack opened his mouth to protest, but was saved from his own stupid self by the waitress. Now Racetrack's favorite person in the universe, the old woman arrived with their food and a very welcome distraction. 

"You guys enjoy your food, and let me know if you need anything." She smiled and walked away, leaving even more breadsticks behind. 

Racetrack needed a lot of things, but Olive Garden probably didn't provide any of them. What Racetrack needed was something that wasn't _quite_ oregano. Or anything like it, really. Just in appearance. Dad didn't like weed though. Said it was trashy, gross, irresponsible. What he didn't seem to understand was that it made Racetrack feel so very very _nice_ inside. 

Race shook the thoughts out of his head and focused on his ravioli. He pretended not to notice the obvious and heavy silence surrounding their little corner of the restaurant. Dad had made the time to hang out with him. That was what mattered.

Wasn't it?


	21. mom vibes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it took me a long time to get this written because this Spot is based on Tommy Bracco's Spot, and Tommy Bracco posted some stupid joke about mental disorders and is traveling during a pandemic, so I hate him and didn't want to write about his character anymore.  
> Then I was like "this is spot conlon, and many people have played spot conlon, and Tommy bracco is just an anti-mask idiot who is friends with racists, so screw him and write some good shit"  
> so thats where I am emotionally.

Spot couldn't sleep. He stared up at the glowing planets dangling from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the breeze from the air conditioner, and he worried. Tomorrow morning, he got right back on another airplane and flew back to film some more. 

He'd film more flipping and sparring and falling, whatever Medda wanted. He'd do anything at this point. They needed the money more than ever. If anything happened to Smalls, Spot was absolutely certain he would die. There was no part of him that would even _want_ to go on living in a world where she wasn't. 

And then the soft sound of Romeo's breathing tapped gently through the fragile wall of raw anger in his mind, stabbing Spot to the gut with guilt. He'd want to live for Romeo, and Sophie, and Aaron. He'd live, even without… but that theoretical situation didn't matter. Smalls would be fine. She'd get better this time. Spot had to believe that. 

His baby sister slept peacefully in the next room over, exhausted after all the fuss of coming home from the hospital again. 

Spot was exhausted. Exhausted after spending more time on airplanes than off of them, and exhausted from pushing harder and harder every day. Exhausted from running away his feelings until it hurt. He was so _tired._

Spot squeezed his eyes tight. If he was this tired, why couldn't he get to sleep? Piggy's wheel squeaked, and Romeo shifted in his sleep at the noise, turning to face Spot. His pillow pet slid and fell on the floor, the ragged and well-loved cow's cheerful grin beaming up at Spot in the dim glow of Romeo's nightlight. 

Spot wanted to shred it to pieces, get rid of the stupid fucking smile that was mocking him for existing. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Fuck, he was the worst, wanting to destroy Romeo's favorite toy for literally no reason. Worse, he wanted to destroy the thing because it was happy and he wasn't. Jealous of a fucking stuffed _cow._ That was Spot Conlon today.

He sat up and rolled out of bed. 

After quickly settling the pillow pet back into Romeo's sleeping arms, Spot slipped out of their room and over to Smalls' on the other side of the bathroom. 

The floor creaked softly, but everyone was so used to the sounds of the old house, Spot doubted anyone would wake up. 

Smalls lay in bed, curled into a little nest of blankets. Spot smiled at her face, kneeling beside the bed. Smalls always looked ready to commit murder when she slept, hands curled into fists and her face screwed up in an expression of pure loathing. 

She'd always looked like that, even as a baby. Because of Smalls, Spot understood the heart of a Resting Bitch Face well before he knew what that meant. 

She was happy and playful as any other kid, just happened to look like she wanted to set you on fire. 

Spot didn't even realize he'd been crying until he reached up to wipe away the tears on his cheeks, and then he stared at them for a minute, little shining specks on the back of his hand. 

He dried them off on his pajama pants and shook his head, telling himself to grow up. There was work to do, important things to focus on. If he wanted to keep Smalls safe, he had to be stronger than this. 

The baseball clock on Smalls' nightstand stared at him with glowing numbers. Nearly two, so he should probably be getting to sleep. Probably. 

"Sean?" 

He jumped about three feet in the air at Sophie's voice. She knelt beside him. 

"Sweetie, what are you doing up?"

Spot leaned into Sophie's gentle hands massaging his neck. 

"Couldn't sleep?" 

Spot shook his head, and avoided thinking about anything of importance. He thought about himself, because that wasn't important. As a general rule, there was pretty much always a sore spot _somewhere_ on his body, especially after a long plane ride. 

"You need your rest, sweetheart." 

Spot nodded noncommittal. He _needed_ rest, sure. But that didn't mean he was going to get it. Aaron needed his glasses fixed, and had for almost a year now. That didn't mean they'd be able to afford it any time soon. 

Smalls needed treatment, but insurance was fucking stupid, so maybe she wouldn't get it in time. 

"Oh, honey…" Sophie pulled him close, and Spot realized he was crying again. He closed his eyes and pretended he wasn't. Fucking stupid. He was supposed to be an adult now. Shouldn’t be crying in his not-technically-mom’s arms like a baby. 

"Sean, you don't have to go back if you don't want to," she said softly, rubbing his back.

"You can stay here. We'll make it work." 

_God_ Spot wished he could go along with that. He wanted to stay more than anything in the world, to curl up next to Smalls and never leave her side, not until she was completely and totally free of the stupid cancer fucking up her body. 

"I have to," Spot whispered. In a perfect world, a world where they didn’t need the money and Smalls wasn’t always hanging by a thread, and Spot could actually pass high school like a normal person, he’d stay. He wanted to stay, and he couldn’t, and that fucking sucked. 

_Grow up,_ he ordered himself. He had a job to do, a real, serious, career-type job. This stupid pity party wouldn’t help anything. 

Sophie kneaded circles in his shoulders, and Spot sighed in relief as knots he hadn't known were there melted away from his tense muscles. 

Spot would have to work on that tension, or he might end up hurting himself, and then where would they be?

"Will you try and call my mom again?"

Sophie hesitated for a moment, and Spot almost thought she would refuse. 

"Of course. I'm sure she's just busy right now." Spot nodded, wanting to believe that was true. She'd answer soon. She _would_ show up this time, now that it was important. 

"Sean, you know we love you, right?" 

Spot frowned a little, still keeping his eyes shut. 

"Yeah."

Of course he knew that. Where had that kind of question even come from? Sophie sighed, but said nothing. 

They just sat together on the floor of Smalls’ bedroom, dimly lit by fairy lights all across the ceiling. 

Magical and nauseating at the same time. 


	22. TITLES BELONG TO THOSE WHO HAVE BRAINS AND I DO NOT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GOSH GOLLY IM STRUGGLING WITH THIS FIC.  
> SOMEONE TALK TO ME ABOUT IT OR SOMETHING SO I GET INSPIRED.
> 
> I cant write and I just think that's very sexy of me.

The second Spot stepped onto the airplane, he wanted more than anything to get back off again. That feeling did not go away the entire flight, and the businessman unfortunate enough to find himself seated next to him was none too pleased by all the fidgeting. 

He didn’t say anything, of course, just glared and huffed and in general made it very clear that Spot was causing him annoyance. Spot did not particularly care. He wanted to move, to run or spar or stretch, just _something_ to stop his mind from whirling away. 

Both Spot and the businessman were relieved when the plane finally landed down in California. For the second time in as many weeks, Spot noted.

He had to worry about the effect that might have on his body, with pressure changes and being cramped so much. Realistically, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have any sort of effect, but it was easier to worry about his kneecaps than it was to think about anything else right now. 

Spot gathered his carry-on bag and followed the other passengers off the plane.

He was surprised when, suddenly, he was in the hotel. He had no idea how he’d gotten here. Had someone driven him? Had he just walked? Spot really hoped he hadn’t walked; he was supposed to meet someone to drive him, and they’d be confused as fuck if he just didn’t show up. 

Spot glanced at his phone for the time. Seven PM, so not late enough for him to have walked here. Still, it was a bit concerning that he just… didn’t remember the past hour and a half of his life.

Well, nothing to do about that now. He’d be better off getting to sleep, Spot decided. Sure, it was early, but he was clearly tired if he was blacking out for over an hour at a time, and that was not exactly an ideal situation to be in, not with his line of work. 

Besides, if Spot was sleeping, he wasn’t thinking, and that was exactly what he wanted. 

* * *

“Thinking is overrated,” Racetrack announced, tossing his entire body directly on top of Jack. 

“What if,” Albert suggested. “You tried it for once, and then you could be sure of that.”

Race flipped his shoes onto Albert’s lap. 

“No thank you. Thinking is useless. I thought about every word I said to Dad, and he still hates me.”

Albert cringed, maybe at Race’s socks, maybe at the thought of his dad. He felt similarly towards both.

Gross, but they came with the Racetrack Higgins Package. 

“He doesn’t _hate_ you,” Jack started to say, but Race interrupted. “He does. He said I’m wasting my life, and I should be more like fucking _Dante._ ”

He choked on his tongue. Racetrack didn’t like to think about Dante.

“Yeah, he wants me to be just like Dante. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.”

Jack smacked him on the side of the head, but gently. 

“He doesn’t. And if he did, he’d be wrong. Businessmen are always stupid. Don’t you watch rom-coms?”

Racetrack almost sort of smiled at that. 

“Still…”  
Albert nudged his leg with one foot. “It sucks. You can be hurt. He’s a dick.”

Racetrack wanted to argue, wanted to defend his dad, but there wasn’t much to say. 

“He bought me Olive Garden.” 

As if that made up for anything. 

Albert shot Jack a _look,_ the kind of look that meant they were worried, maybe even had a conversation about it behind Racetrack’s back. That… felt a mixture of good and bad. 

Racetrack leaned backwards on top of Jack’s chest, because personal space was for other people. 

“Jacky, snuggle me,” he demanded. Jack, surprisingly, obliged. 

“I’ll buy you Olive Garden,” he said, rubbing Racetrack’s eyebrows in a weird gesture of affection.  
“I’m your dad now.”

“Daddy?” Racetrack giggled.

Jack shoved him onto the floor.

“Ouch! Abuse! Albert, you’re a witness.”

Albert picked up a magazine off Racetrack’s desk. 

“Oh no. Whatever shall we do?” Choosing not to be offended by the lack of emotion in Albert’s voice, Racetrack rubbed his now-dented skull. 

“Beat him up,” Racetrack requested, climbing back onto the bed and bouncing happily. Distractions were good. He liked distractions. 

Albert threw Racetrack’s pineapple eraser in Jack’s general direction, missing completely. 

“Consider yourself avenged.”

Racetrack squealed gleefully. He told himself he felt full of glee. He really did. Everything was great. Racetrack Higgins didn’t get sad. 

Never.


	23. You owe this update to my dog.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shes sleeping on my feet. I have no choice but to write.  
> Everyone say "thanks Sara!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dark thoughts in here, due to angst is fun.
> 
> I dont know how filming a movie works and writing this was a mistake.   
>  Peace out friends. ♡

Getting back to work was a great distraction. Spot much preferred to think about simple things, like not falling on his head or getting kicked in the face too hard, both of which could definitely happen if he spent his time thinking about what was _really_ on his mind. He couldn't do anything for Smalls, he reminded himself every time those worries crept into his mind. 

The only way for Spot to help his baby sister was to keep working. Keep working and keep avoiding thinking about it. If he didn't think too much, it was almost like none of it was happening. Spot would go home at the end of filming, and Smalls would be fine. She'd have recovered completely, and be back to her normal self. 

The fact that his sister had spent the majority of her life sick, and thus didn't exactly _have_ a normal self to go back to was one of the many thoughts Spot would not think today. 

He also would not think about, talk to, or in any way interact with Racetrack Higgins. They'd been getting along better just before he up and left, but from the looks he kept getting over the past few days, Spot was pretty sure the actor wasn't happy with his sudden disappearance. 

Unprofessional beyond what Spot would normally do, but it wasn't like Racetrack had any room to complain. 

Spot stretched again as he stood around waiting. He did a lot of that lately, seeing as the average scene of mostly dialogue did not have an overwhelming need for a stunt double. 

Every free second he would stretch. Stretching meant he looked busy, and thinking about his left leg or trapezius muscle was easier than thinking about the weird expression everybody had whenever they came near him. 

Gossipy, that was what all these people were. Spot did not appreciate being the subject of their gossip. Not him, not Smalls, not anything to do with their family. They could all go think about something else, like the fact that Racetrack couldn't seem to keep his fucking tie on straight, and for some reason Spot found the crookedness to be entirely too fascinating, and he hated it. 

Why was he still here?

The thought hit him like a ton of bricks. What good was this specific paycheck? None of his work before now had been good enough, so why would this job be any different? 

Spot couldn't stand the thought that he might lose her. He'd be incomplete. What would he do, anyway? More stunt work? No point. Maybe go graduate high school finally, to make Sophie and Aaron happy. 

Like they'd be happy when their baby was dead. 

_Dead_. 

Spot turned and walked out as quietly as he could. He wasn't going to cry here, in front of all these people. He'd really prefer to not cry at all, but his rapidly closing throat had other ideas. 

This hallway would do, he supposed, sliding down onto the floor. Now, alone, he could just let go. Let all the tears come as freely as they wanted, and not worry that someone would see. Nobody would come down this hall, and besides, Spot didn't have the energy to care. 

He was so tired. 

Too tired. There was no point in any of this anymore. Spot curled into a pathetic ball. All he wanted was to sleep, ideally forever. That would be nice. 

He was insured pretty well, so that money would help just as much as anything he could manage while staying alive. 

"Are you...okay?"

Spot jerked to look up at the familiar voice and whacked his head into the wall. 

"Fuck!"

Racetrack, the owner of the voice, laughed nervously. 

"Medda's done with me for the day. I'm supposed to go give back all this," he gestured to himself and his wardrobe. It looked nice, and Spot hated that he noticed. 

"But, ah, I heard…" he rubbed his neck awkwardly. 

"Want to talk about it?" 

Spot nearly managed to smile at just how unsure Racetrack sounded. None of the obnoxious cockiness today, apparently. Just an awkward guy in a rumpled suit covered in fake blood. 

Spot swallowed hard, realizing that he _did_ want to talk about it. He didn't talk. Never. Not about that.

That got him pity and people bringing it up every thirty seconds when all he wanted was to pretend like everything was fine. And now he wanted to tell Racetrack fucking Higgins about his dying sister. 

Spot wiped angrily at his eyes and rested his chin on his knees. 

Racetrack folded himself down onto the floor beside him, close, but with a very calculated, deliberate distance in between them.

"I assume it has to do with why you left?" he guessed timidly. 

Spot nodded. 

"My sister. She's… sick." Spot wiped his nose on his sleeve and immediately regretted it. 

"What kind of sick?" Racetrack started to fidget with his tie, making the crookedness worse and worse. 

"Cancer." 

The word kind of just… sat there, right between them. 

"Oh," Racetrack whispered after a moment's hesitation. 

"That's… not good."

Spot laughed bitterly. 

"Yeah, not really. It's gone to her brain now. She's-" 

He couldn't say it. He couldn't think about the statistics the doctor gave, the ones Spot had eavesdropped his way into learning. He couldn't consider the possibility of a world without her. 

Racetrack hesitantly put a hand on his arm, almost like he thought Spot might bite him for it. 

Spot didn't exactly lean into the touch, but he didn't pull away either. 


	24. Short chapter with left fandom reference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julie and the Phantoms Reference ✔  
> Bambi Reference ✔  
> No planning, no plotline, and very little thought ✔

Racetrack's house was probably the biggest house Spot had ever been inside. Not that he made a point to go hanging around mansions, but still.

He looked around the enormous, cave-like living room, feeling very much like he didn't belong.

"You just live here on your own?"

"Yeah, basically." Racetrack shrugged. "Technically it's my mom's house, but she's not here much. New boyfriend, ya know?"

Spot did know, but he was going to pretend that he didn't. Better to think about something else. 

Spot thought he might go crazy living alone in a place like this, which, to be fair, might explain a lot about Racetrack's personality. 

"I think I'd get lost."

Racetrack grinned. 

"Why do you think I'm always late to everything?" He flopped on the couch and Spot did the same. This couch alone probably cost more than Aaron's car, which, admittedly, wasn't saying much. Aaron's car was a junk heap. 

Right now, Spot felt like a junk heap himself. He didn't fit in a place like this, and it was very obvious. Hanging his jacket up in the closet alongside clothes that looked like they'd never been worn, when all of his clothes had been thrift finds. 

Spot was nothing compared to Racetrack. Racetrack, who was currently talking about the filming, which, Spot had to be honest, he knew very little about, and cared even less. He wasn't an actor in any way, shape, or form. 

"So yeah, the other people are cool, and Medda's doing epic shit, like usual," Racetrack concluded. Spot nodded along, pretending like he'd been listening, and not feeling like human garbage. 

Racetrack looked down at his phone. 

"Jack's here," he practically squealed. "I'll go let him in. Stay here." 

As if Spot was going to risk moving from this exact place until the moment he went "home". 

* * *

"I thought you were a stuntman," Albert commented, slamming Spot off the road in MarioKart for what might have been the hundredth time. Racetrack wasn't sure. He mostly focused on his own screen, because he wasn't a filthy _cheater_ , like Jack. 

"I've ridden an actual motorcycle," Spot snapped. "Not a dolphin with radiation poisoning."

"Really?" 

Jack perked up at the mention of motorcycles. He liked to think he was a greaser from the eighties. 

He was not. 

"I'm not great," Spot admitted, setting down his remote in defeat. "Still learning. The more I know, the more jobs I can get."

Racetrack tossed a pillow at his head. "Gotta get that coin."

To his surprise, Spot smiled. Could it be? Mr. Grouchy-serious was loosening up? 

"Hey!" Racetrack squealed after being hit in the face with the same pillow, now going approximately 400 miles an hour. Maybe Spot was too comfortable. 

"Fight me," Spot declared, _almost_ leaning back into the couch. Still sat like an old man who thought he might get stuck, Racetrack noted. 

He did not usually notice things like that. Was it just because Spot was...himself, or was Racetrack becoming a _good_ host? Wow, he'd make his mother proud. 

She would not be proud of him for bludgeoning his guest to death with her decorative couch cushions, but she wasn't here, now was she?

* * *

Racetrack was not a good host in any way, shape, or form. He wasn't a _bad_ host, either; he just had a tendency to go through life exactly the same as when he was home alone, and not bother to tell his new boy toy, say, where the fucking bathroom was. 

The house was enormous, even Jack knew that, and his house was basically the same size. Spot, apparently, did not live in such a large house, and did not know how to navigate it. 

"Spot!" Racetrack hollered. 

"Where'd you go?"

"I have no fucking clue," came a shout back. "Your house is a goddamn museum." Jack had to laugh at that. It was more of a modern art exhibit, if anything. Mrs. Higgins believed in minimalism, largely because the less stuff she had, the less stuff Racetrack could break, set fire to, or spill orange juice on. 

"Don't yell in the museum," Albert shouted, barely looking away from the TV. 

"At least put your heart into it," Racetrack ordered, bounding off like a twitterpated Bambi in search of his love. 

"Yell like ya mean it, loser."

Spot made a noise that almost sounded like a yell, but more confused. 

"I am dominant," Racetrack declared, screeching to prove it. "Where even _are_ you?"

"I have no fucking- oh!" 

Spot managed to find them himself. 

"Why does absolutely nothing in this house look like anything?" He demanded. 

"Because my mom reads too many magazines and if I redecorate she'll kill me," Racetrack said cheerfully, tossing an arm around Spot's neck after only a very slight hesitation that Spot probably hadn't noticed, but Jack sure did. 

Racetrack was absolutely and completely _t_ _witterpated._


	25. Writing is hard and I hate myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know this took way too long to update.  
> I'm very sorry, I just don't have much interest in this fic at the moment, but also I really do not wanna leave y'all hanging so much, so here's a real cliffhanger to keep me motivated.

At some point, this movie was going to get made, Spot realized, trying very hard to focus on his studying. The movie would be made, and he would go back home. 

He wanted to go home, that much he was certain of. 

So why did the thought of leaving make Spot feel so sad? 

He'd give anything to see his family right now, but at the same time…

Racetrack's sigh of irritation broke through his thoughts, and also was probably the reason for those same thoughts. 

"Why am I doing this?"

Spot blinked slowly to clear away the math-fog taking over his brain. 

"Doing what?" 

Hanging out with the stunt double? The past few weeks, they'd been doing a lot of that, mostly at Racetrack's house, which Spot no longer got lost in. 

Usually. 

If Racetrack was going to decide he was too good for Spot's presence, he should have done it much earlier than now. 

"Calculus."

Hanging out with Spot was not typically calculus, so this was clearly not the point of the conversation. 

"Because you want to graduate high school?" He suggested. Racetrack shook his head.

"My _mother_ wants me to graduate high school," he corrected. "I couldn't care less."

Spot snorted a bitter laugh.

"My mom doesn't give a shit if I live or die."

Racetrack laughed lightly, then frowned. 

"Wait, what do you mean?" 

Maybe that little tidbit had been a bad thing to share during this mathematics therapy session, seeing as Spot didn't really want to tell Racetrack his entire life story. 

"She's got… problems." 

That wasn't _super fucking vague_ at all. Good job, Spot. No reasonable person would have questions after such an answer. 

"What kind of problems are we talking about here?" 

Spot sighed and shut his math textbook. Sophie and Aaron were always telling him to talk about his feelings.

"She exclusively cares about herself. That's basically it."

Spot was so good at this feelings shit. 

Racetrack looked very confused. 

"Okay? So do you live alone? Where does your sister go when you're here?" 

Spot bristled at the thought of leaving Smalls alone. 

"We live with family. My aunt and uncle."

"Oh." Racetrack frowned again. 

"I'm sorry. That really sucks." 

"Yeah." Spot snorted, and absolutely did not wipe at his eyes with his shirt sleeve, because there was no reason for him to do such a thing. 

"She doesn't visit. Ever. I talked to her on the phone like, two years ago." 

"I last saw my mom nine months ago," Racetrack offered weakly. "She's in France, I think. With her boyfriend."

Spot nudged his leg with one foot. 

"Guess we should start a club. The _My Mom Doesn't Fucking Love Me_ Club."

This was how friendships between home-of-sexual persons developed. 

Day 1: barely introduced

Day 2: mutual hatred

Day 3: therapy session over a five star dinner of microwaved hotdogs

Maybe that was why Spot never had any friends back home anymore. That must be the reason. Couldn't possibly be from the whole "missed half of high school" thing. 

He'd had friends as a little kid, right? 

The neighborhood kids weren't super fond of the short, bitter little Conlon kid who'd kick their ass if they looked at his baby sister wrong. 

"D'you want to keep in touch after this?" 

Racetrack asked after a longish silence. 

"The filming, I mean. Not math." 

Spot nodded before he even thought about it. 

"I'd like that."

Indiana was a good way away, but that magical invention known as cell phones did exist for a reason.

"Are we friends?" 

That question was significantly more of a surprise than the previous one. 

"I guess so?" 

Spot was suddenly very aware of how close together they were sitting. His leg touched Racetrack's, just barely. He shifted so they wouldn't be anymore. 

"Albert and Jack are my friends," Racetrack said, clearly just voicing his stream of consciousness. 

"And that's different. Not better, or worse, or anything. But it feels different." 

He didn't look at Spot. 

"Does it feel that way to you?"

Spot hesitated. 

He wanted to agree, and to close that tiny bit of space right between them, but he couldn't. 

"I…"

His phone buzzed, and Spot quickly whipped it out. 

Sophie's name blinked up at him from the screen. 

_No..._ Spot stared at the message.

"Spot?"

This was not happening. It wasn't. Spot wouldn't let it. Everything had to be okay. He couldn't live if it wasn't all okay. 

"What's wrong, Spot?" 

Spot slapped away the hands that were for some reason shaking him. He snapped to look into Racetrack's face. There was something there, some kind of emotion, but Spot couldn't quite place his finger on what it was. 

"Hey! What happened?"

"I need to go home," Spot choked out. "It's my sister."


End file.
